


The Slave Who Wouldn't Run Away

by kleiothemuse



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Bottoming from the Top, Case Fic, Clueless John, Clueless Sherlock, Dark, Dubious Consent, Evil Mycroft, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Insecure Sherlock, Jealous Sherlock, John is a Saint, Johnlock - Freeform, Light Dom/sub, Love, M/M, Master/Slave, Rape with inanimate object, Sexual Slavery, Sexual Violence, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Slave John, Slave Trade, Slavery, Topping from the Bottom, Violence, Virgin Sherlock, or just a bit petty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-08 22:21:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 43,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3225602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kleiothemuse/pseuds/kleiothemuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson, a slave with a contract to one of the many auction houses operating legally in modern-day Britain, is sold to a new master, Sherlock Holmes, who appears to want John to be more of an assistant/housekeeper than to warm his bed. As far as John is concerned, this works out nicely. </p><p>However, the situation changes when Sherlock’s brother interferes, putting pressure on Sherlock to act according to his role as a slave owner, which entails demanding sexual services of his slave as well as disciplining him. Sherlock appears reluctant to obey, whereas John is strangely OK with it... </p><p>But is everything quite as it seems?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Reluctant Master

**Author's Note:**

> This is my take on slavelock: a bit dark and angsty at times, but hopefully just a little bit silly, as well! I came so very close to writing Omegaverse, but somehow that particular type of dom/sub dynamic didn't quite fit the love story I had in mind. Because, yes, despite the fact that actual slavery is, of course, bad and to be condemned in all shapes and forms, this is most of all a LOVE story, or as close to one as an old cynic like me can get:)
> 
> A great big THANK YOU to **sideris** for agreeing to beta this for me! Love you, my dear. *hugs*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: No actual warnings for this chapter, apart from the very Sherlockian sex scene;) Still, I suggest you check the tags carefully before reading!

"Just to be clear, I didn't want you."

John took this in, considered the possible interpretations, tried to pick out his favourite. While he was thinking, he shifted his knees a bit on the carpet and tried to relax his shoulders without losing the straight posture, which he knew was expected of him, even when his hands were tied behind his back. Only then did he answer.

"Oh. Right. So, you lost a bid for another slave and settled for me." John let out a deep sigh. "That's great. This'll be just great."

But the new owner shook his head impatiently and walked over to the fireplace. He moved quickly and gracefully in his outrageously expensive-looking suit and freshly polished shoes, which all made it clear that John was well out of his league.

Why a posh sod like him had chosen to bid on John in the first place was a complete mystery. John knew full well he wasn't the prettiest or the strongest slave on offer that night - and he was far from being the youngest - yet this man had decided to settle on him. John couldn't help wondering who he had tried to bid on. Perhaps Sandy, with her golden hair and full hips. Or, if it was a male slave he was after, then it surely would have been Robbie, who not only looked like a bloody film star but was also a really decent bloke.

John had quite frankly been shocked to be inspected by someone so far above his price range, so to speak. Even in the crowded room, where there were at least a couple of dozen buyers for every  slave, this man had stood out. He wasn't the best-looking person to stop by to give John a closer look - not that there were even that many interested in him, given his advanced years and limited experience - but he was definitely the most striking. There was something special about him, some form of attraction that went beyond his unusual looks. Something that had made John hope this would be the man who purchased him at the end of the night.

And now, here he was, kneeling on the floor of the man's flat, being told that he wasn't wanted. That should teach him to be careful what he wished for.

"I mean, I didn't want a slave in the first place. But it has been brought to my attention - repeatedly and most vehemently, I might add - that I am required to own one." His master turned his back to the mantelpiece and looked John in the eyes for the first time since his initial inspection at the auction. "I own you, John Watson. Welcome to Baker Street."

"Um, thanks. I guess." John shifted his weight uneasily. "And what do I call you? Sir? Master?"

"You may call me Sherlock."

John thought it a bit odd, but nodded all the same. To each his own.

He took a careful look around, trying to assess what his new master's preferences might be. He couldn't see any whips or canes lying around the sitting room, which was good, but there was definitely a pair of handcuffs on the desk by the computer, which bothered him a bit. However, he was soon to go from bothered to straight-out horrified, as he caught a glimpse of the laptop screen: a picture of a bloody and naked body, possibly female, but it was difficult to tell, as most of the extremities had be been hacked off.

If this was what this bloke liked to watch to get himself off, it was definitely time to panic.

"You know, they won't like it if you snuff me."

"Who?" the man - Sherlock - asked, sounding irritated. "Snuff? Why on earth would I do such a thing?"

John nodded towards the computer, then swallowed a little too loudly.

"It's bad for business, being associated with murders. The slave trade gets such a bad rap as it is."

"Don't be absurd. I have no intention of killing you." John looked pointedly at the computer. "That is for a case. That's work. This-" He waggled his long fingers at John. "This is the opposite of work. Whatever that is. Not really my area."

The last bit was added with such honesty, that John was tempted to believe this man really didn't know the word for leisure.

"So you're not some deranged sociopath, who's going to rape and murder me?" he asked, almost laughingly. "That's a relief."

"I didn't say I wasn't a sociopath. I simply said that is not why you are here."

Sherlock strode to the fireplace and pulled something out of the mantelpiece, right next to an honest-to-god, human skull. As a result, a pile of unopened letters dropped to the floor by his feet, but he didn’t pick them up. John made a mental note to tidy them up, as soon as his master would allow him to move.

However, all thought of house cleaning was wiped from his mind when Sherlock turned back with a knife in his hand.

John had, of course, heard of cutters. The auction houses rarely minded, as long as there was no permanent damage done to the slaves, especially the short term ones, but accidents did happen. John remembered seeing a girl once, months back, who had been returned to the auction house for being "defective": her last owner had raped her with a broken wine bottle. He had later learned that she had taken her own life shortly afterwards.

"Listen, I'm telling you they don't like that sort of thing at the Houses. They want slaves to trend, yeah? Be a mainstream thing. But every cutting case - or every killing - it affects the public image of the whole trade, makes it look like it's only for the weirdos... Not that you're a weirdo!" John hurried to add, but it seemed too late already. Sherlock had moved to stand right in front of him, and the knife was only inches from his face.

John quickly calculated his options, went through every possibly move he could use to disarm him. The fact that his hands were still tied behind his back was a definite hindrance, but he still had two working legs to make use of. He might have been labelled a deserter and criminal by the army, but stripping him of his uniform hadn't erased his training. Sherlock was tall and slim, quite the opposite to John’s short and stocky figure, and even in his disadvantaged state, John knew he could take him.

However, before he could make his move, Sherlock had swung around him and dropped down on one knee to reach for his bound hands.

“Is this customary, to tie up the slaves in transit?” he asked as he started to cut John's hands free with the knife.

John hesitated, not knowing what the wisest thing to say might be. “No. We’ve all signed our contracts willingly, after all. But I was considered…” John hesitated, unable to decide if this was something he wanted to disclose to his new owner. “Apparently I’m a flight risk.”

"Mm, yes,” Sherlock muttered.

John could’ve kicked himself. Of course the auction house had given the buyer his entire record or they would have faced charges for withholding relevant information.

“You may take care of the household," Sherlock said, getting back up. John felt the rope loosen around his wrists, and with a few shakes, his hands were free again.  "Shopping, cleaning... whatever else ‘housekeeping’ might entail.”

John got the feeling that Sherlock honestly didn’t know.

“Now, I don't particularly care how well you accomplish these tasks, but I suspect it's best you do something other than just loiter around. I will not have you wear a collar, unless the occasion requires it. Not because I disapprove of them, but because due to the nature of my work, I often have clients here, in the flat, and I would prefer not to make it public knowledge that I now own a slave.”

“You’ve never owned one before, then?” John hazarded to ask.

“No, and I never wanted one, either. Yet here you are.” Sherlock returned the knife to the mantelpiece, sticking it into the wood so hard the skull rattled. Evidently he noticed John jump back a bit, for he added, “I have no intention of cutting or otherwise brutalising you. I may, however, want to talk to you about matters involving blood and murder, but as an ex-army doctor, I should think you fully capable of handling it."

“Yes, sir.” Sherlock shot him a disapproving look, quite like the one John’s old teacher had used to give him whenever he forgot to take off his hoodie in class. “Sorry. Yes. Sherlock.”

Sherlock swept out of the sitting room and through the kitchen to what could only be his bedroom. Before he slammed the door shut behind him, he added over his shoulder, "And the next time I tell you to sit down, I do wish you would make use of the chairs instead of the floor."

Struck speechless, John stood up slowly, swayed for a moment on his stiff knees and brushed the dust from his trousers. The place could definitely use a bit of hoovering.

The only thing he was left wondering was, where the vacuum cleaner might be kept. That, and whether the “brutalising” included sodomy or not.

 

///

 

John soon found himself enjoying his new life at 221B Baker Street. He cooked and cleaned, even went to the shops, on his own and with an actual credit card in his pocket. It gave him relative freedom, unlike anything he had experienced with his former masters and mistresses, whose demands had been, if not exclusively, then at least partly sexual in nature.

There already was a sort of a housekeeper, a Mrs Hudson, who lived in the flat downstairs. Actually, she claimed to be Sherlock’s landlady, but it was obvious she had done most of the tasks that now befell John. At times, it seemed almost as if she missed doing all those things for “her Sherlock”, and whenever Sherlock was away, John would invite her upstairs to keep him company while he dusted. He even allowed her to show him “how to do it properly”, which worked out perfectly, since she usually ended up doing the work for John.

However, on top of all the domestic duties there was Sherlock's work: murders, robberies and mysteries, all sorts of cases full of danger and intrigue. Just after the first couple of days, it became evident that John was living with a genius. Sherlock could tell the most bizarre things about people simply by observing how they crossed their legs or what they had for breakfast. Armed with nothing more than his microscope and the internet, he could piece together a novel-length narrative from a single speck of dirt.

And despite what Sherlock had said that first night, that he “may” want to talk about his work to John, more often than not John was included in the fascinating process of solving those crimes. Sherlock liked to think out loud, and John very much liked to listen to him. Already on that first day, John had thought that this man had the most beautiful male voice he had ever heard, and when Sherlock started talking about a case - his pale blue eyes burning with excitement, his voice dark and breathless as the words streamed out of his mouth so fast it was almost dizzying - it was truly a thing of beauty.

At times John could even forget that there was an ownership between them, as he raced through London with this amazingly brilliant man, adrenalin pumping through his system like a drug. John quickly learned that he had a habit. And he had no desire to kick it.

It was on the night he strangled a serial-killer cabbie with his bare hands - thereby saving Sherlock's life and ridding the world of one bad cabbie - that John realised he was going beyond the call of duty. And when Sherlock saved him from being killed by a group of Chinese circus performers - who were actually part of a crime syndicate and mistook John for Sherlock - he knew, that from now on, his life belonged to this impossible man.

When they were at a crime scene in Chelsea (a legless corpse in an alley behind Anfield stadium), Sherlock introduced him to the police officers as his assistant. Then, maybe a week later, at another crime scene (a blood-soaked flat of a minor celebrity in Holland Park) he referred to John as his partner. And finally, as they stood looking down at the disassembled parts of at least three people near the Canary Wharf Tube station, Sherlock told the poor, shaking woman, who had found the heap of limbs, that the man next to him was his friend, John Watson.

To his embarrassment, John found himself filled with pride. It was unlike anything he had felt since his army days - before he had been dishonourably discharged, of course.

He could tell some of the police officers knew quite well what his true position in the Holmes household was, but as the whole slave institution was something of an open secret, none voiced their suspicions out loud. So, despite the few meaningful glances and barely hidden nudges he had to witness, John lived the life of a free man, once more. And it was good.

Most importantly, it was fun. They had fun. John couldn't remember the last time he had laughed as much as he did during that time with Sherlock. Yes, the man could be an obnoxious arse at times, a downright scary psychopath at others, but whatever he was, he was never boring.

As to Sherlock's requests, they ranged from quite insane to utterly mad. John had, of course, heard some rather fantastical stories in the auction houses about owners who made their slaves jump through hoops - quite literally - but none compared with the tasks Sherlock had him perform.

He might say...

"I need you to lie perfectly still, John. Never mind the traffic, they're bound to swerve."

Or...

"It's now been twenty minutes, John. How would you describe your level of nausea on a scale of one to ten? Would you say you'd still be able to climb up a ladder without-- I see."

Or even...

"Come now, John. It'll grow back. I’m sure that it grows back. It does grow back, doesn’t it?"

It was ridiculous, the things John was expected to endure, and on top of the experiments and crime work came the daily chores of keeping the house in reasonable order and his master properly fed. At times he couldn’t believe that anyone thought he did it all willingly.

Nonetheless, all things considered, John's life with his new master went relatively well. That is, until a visit from Sherlock’s brother was announced to take place the next morning.

Following the news of the upcoming visit, John, who had been living quite comfortably in the spare room upstairs, was now told to sleep in Sherlock's room instead. When John enquired the reason for this, all he got was:

"He will know. He will smell it on you."

And when Sherlock introduced the collar, which he had specifically promised John wouldn't have to wear, the explanation was:

"These things matter to him."

When John tried to ask why exactly he - or Sherlock, for that matter - should give a shit about what mattered to his brother, all Sherlock would say was:

"He can ruin everything.”

John took one look at his face, saw no trace of jest in the cold eyes, no twinge at the corner of his lips. What ever new experiment or test this was, Sherlock was dead serious about it.

So, John lowered his head to let Sherlock fasten the thick, black leather collar around his neck.

 

///

 

They ate their tea in silence that night. Sherlock had no case to work on, so he spent the evening sitting by his computer, searching for information on something John dared not ask about. He knew Sherlock watched a video at one point, as he could see flickers of the light from the screen on his face, but it must have been on mute, since no sound travelled to where John was sitting with his paper. It must have been something gruesome, though, because when Mrs Hudson popped in to remind Sherlock of the rent he still hadn’t paid, the lid of the computer was shut with a bang.

When Sherlock finally did close his computer and hour or so later and appeared ready to retire, John suddenly found the collar around his neck far too tight for comfort. No matter how hard he tried, he didn't seem to be getting enough air past it, and he kept pushing his fingers underneath the leather to pull it away from his skin.

"Let it go, John. It's not too tight."

John was started to hear Sherlock's voice right behind him, and turned to find him standing in the doorway to his bedroom. John had just stepped out of the bathroom, where he had had his bath, brushed his teeth and changed into a clean t-shirt and a pair of boxers. He didn't know why he had chosen to dress behind a closed (but not locked) door, when he knew perfectly well Sherlock had already seen every inch of him at the auctioneer’s.

Most of the potential buyers tended to want to try out the slaves before purchasing, so there was always plenty of Vaseline and surgical gloves at hand. The women, of course, had it worse, their bodies being treated like a public amusement, but this had never been John's favourite part of the auctions, either. Strange men, even women, putting their hands on him, their fingers in him, testing to see how tight he was, trying to get him hard to assess the length of his erection.

But Sherlock had just looked at him, hadn't laid a finger on him.

John still remembered what it had felt like to be studied so carefully under that intense gaze, which seemed to caress his skin, measure every inch of him, and then go even deeper than that, all the way to the bone. Somehow, John thought Sherlock had seen through him like he was nothing more than an x-ray image held against the light, all bare and exposed under his scrutiny. But it was an image that captured not only his body: Sherlock had seen the whole of him, his thoughts, his feelings, his needs.

Not a single touch on John’s body, and Sherlock had bid on him anyway.

Sherlock had even managed to scare away another buyer, who had already dipped his gloved fingers in the Vaseline and was clearly waiting in line to examine him. John hadn't heard what Sherlock told him, only seen the terrified look on the man's face as he retreated swiftly, never to return.

That was the moment John truly started to wish Sherlock would bid for him. And here he was, wearing the collar Sherlock had put on him, about to go to bed with him.

"I just seem to be having a hard time getting used to it," John said, trying to settle the collar more comfortably below his Adam's apple. "It's been a while since I've worn one of these, and I thought..."

"...And I told you, you wouldn't have to wear one with me. I am sorry, John." Sherlock's hand had come up to John's neck, and he traced the line of the collar with the tips of his fingers. Just as he pulled his hand away, one of his fingers brushed briefly against John's skin.

Breath caught in John's chest. It suddenly dawned on him that this was the very first time Sherlock had touched him. Well, apart from pushing him out of his way - “I thought having a slave was supposed to be convenient!” - or checking to see he still had a pulse after being electrocuted - “Come on, John. The deceased lasted twice that long!”

John knew Sherlock must have read his reaction from his face. The man could decipher bloody ash - of course he could tell what his slave was thinking.

"I am aware of what I promised you when I... acquired you." Sherlock looked decidedly uncomfortable.

John was reminded of a pub where they had been conducting investigations and where a strongly intoxicated young woman had come on to Sherlock, only to be told that "having it off" wasn't really his sort of thing.

"That being said," Sherlock continued awkwardly, his eyes on anything but John. "I'm afraid we are going to have to engage in sexual intercourse. Preferably penetrative sex, but if that cannot be achieved, then some form of oral or manual stimulation will have to suffice. Please remove your clothes."

Despite his best effort, John felt himself stagger a step back. He swallowed a couple of times, took a deep breath, then exhaled sharply. Right, then. This was it. The end of being Sherlock’s colleague or partner - or friend.

 _Friend_. John wanted to laugh. How could he have been so stupid as to think of them as equal in any way? In an instant, Sherlock had shattered all his naive notions of friendship, exposing them for what they really were: the master and his slave.

Part of John had known to expect this from the moment Sherlock had ordered him to spend the night in his bed, but that didn’t make it feel any less devastating. He had been living in Sherlock's flat for months now, and not once had his master implied in any way that he was interested in demanding sexual favours of his slave.

John had had it too good for too long.

"Fine," was all he said, and started to pull his t-shirt over his head.

"Fine?" Sherlock repeated. "Aren't you going to protest? Beg? Bargain?"

"Do you want me to?" John dropped the shirt on the chair by Sherlock’s wardrobe. "I mean, if it's part of the game, just tell me what you want me to say. _Sir_ ," he couldn't help adding.

John had had sex with four of his previous owners. He was well aware that it wasn't much, compared to most slaves, but John had been sentenced to slavery quite late in life, already in his late thirties, and there really wasn't that big a market for bed-slaves of his caliber.

Three of those owners had been women, all even more mature than him and not overly demanding. The fourth, however, had been a man. In fact, it had been John's first sexual encounter with another man, and one he was in no hurry to repeat.

His owner had been by no means a gentle man. He had treated John with as much respect and care as one would an inflatable dummy - or possibly not even that much, as John was less likely to burst. As a result, John had been savagely raped nearly every night for two weeks, until his owner's wife discovered the truth about her husband's late nights at the office, and John was returned to the auction house.

He remembered bleeding for four days after that. The only thing that had kept him sane was that he doubted another man would purchase him any time soon, not after the damage that had been done to him. Besides, the older he got, the less attractive he became to anyone other than the most desperate old maids. And apparently one rather eccentric consulting detective.

"Where do you want me?" he asked, as he pulled his trousers and pants down. He had been naked in front of Sherlock before, but after the time they had spent together, fighting crime and catching bad guys, he felt a stronger sense of humiliation on being reminded of his true place in Sherlock's household. "Face down on the bed all right?"

But Sherlock shook his head. There was an odd expression on his face, almost like a hunger for something that seemed to turn his stomach. If that made any sense.

"No, right here is fine."

John looked at the floor in front of him. Of course. Just his luck. Months of blissfully asexual and seemingly equal cohabitation - and then a brutal buggering on the hardwood floor.

He hoped Sherlock would, at least, allow him to stay on the carpet. Suffering some burns on his knees would be slightly less painful than being pounded against the bare floor.

"Hold out your hands."

John did as he was told, and soon found his wrists tied together with a length of rope. It was tight enough to make him forget any hope of freeing himself, but not so tight as to bruise his skin too badly. Still, it was the fact that Sherlock had seen fit to tie him up in the first place that had John's heart racing and his muscles trembling. This couldn't possibly mean anything good.

"Would you like a blindfold, as well?" Sherlock asked.

He _asked_. As if John had any choice in the matter, if his owner decided a blind and helpless slave would make for a better fuck.

When John didn't reply immediately, Sherlock added, his voice unusually soft, "It might help. To get you through this."

As futile as it seemed, John shook his head. "Please don't. I... I'd rather see what's happening."

"Very well." Sherlock took a deep breath, as if to brace himself, before he dropped to his knees in front of John.

Wait. _What_?

John glanced down at the man kneeling on the floor right in front of him, trying to find some sign of whether or not he was supposed to follow his lead. But Sherlock gave no indication that he desired to have company down there.

Now, John had already learned there was nothing ordinary about Sherlock Holmes. In fact, that was the most notable thing he had come to learn about his master. But kneeling before the person you were about to rape was a bit odd even for him.

"If you don't want a blindfold," Sherlock continued, his gaze on the floor rather than on John, "I suggest you close your eyes and concentrate on something you find arousing. A pair of freely bouncing breasts is a popular choice, I'm given to understand. Or perhaps a memory of a past sexual encounter. Preferably a consensual one, of course, from before you became a slave. Unless you’ve had consensual relationships with your masters. Those, too, should work perfectly well."

If John hadn't known better, he would have said the man was babbling. Yes, definitely babbling. As if he was nervous.

Well, that made two of them.

John searched for words that would come even close to describing his current state of confusion, but found none. So he settled with:

"W-what?"

"I intend to fellate you, and it would help things along considerably if you were to visualise something that stimulates you. Alternatively, there are some suitable videos I've downloaded to my computer, if you like?" Now Sherlock finally lifted his gaze to meet John's. "I take it you prefer your porn heterosexual?"

"Videos. For me. Heterosexual porn videos." No. No matter how many times John repeated the facts, it didn’t make them any more intelligible.

"Yes. Incidentally, I also have a fair amount of pornographic material featuring two or more men, but I take it that is not your preference."

It wasn't a question but John felt very strongly about answering it all the same.

"No," John said, shaking his head. "No, I'm not gay. But no," he added quickly, as Sherlock was already getting up and reaching for his laptop, which lay on the bedside table. "I don't want to watch porn. Thanks."

Sherlock gave a little sigh, then lowered himself back to his knees.

"Bouncing breasts, it is then," he said as he placed his hands on John's hips and gave him a little tug forward. "Do try to concentrate, John."

However, breasts were the last thing on John's mind as Sherlock's tongue brushed against the tip of his flaccid penis. The first lick felt tentative, timid even. Then the tongue returned with more determination, pushing under the foreskin and circling the glans slowly, teasingly. It was only after the fifth round that John realised the reason he was feeling so light-headed was that he had been holding his breath the entire time. But the moment he pulled fresh air into his lungs, the sensations between his legs became all the more pronounced, and he could tell he was by no means flaccid any more.

A mechanical stimulus. Yes, that's all it was. He had seen it in his doctoring days countless times. The patients weren't actually aroused by being examined. Of course they weren't. The body simply reacted to a mechanical stimulus. Perfectly natural. Yes.

But the moment John glanced down and saw Sherlock open his soft, full lips to allow John's rapidly hardening prick to slide into his mouth, all thought of mechanical anything went out the window.

Good god, how impossibly gorgeous the man looked right then, his mouth stretched around John’s shaft, his cheeks sucked in to accentuate those unreal cheekbones of his. And then - to make matter much, much worse - Sherlock looked up at him. John's breath caught in his chest again as he stared at those eyes, which were no longer pale blue, but dark and deep and so full of... something.

Nope. There was no denying it any more. John's cock was fully erect inside Sherlock's mouth.

Apparently seeing John's trouble with breathing and generally staying upright, Sherlock let his hands slide over onto John's behind, cupping his cheeks and holding him steady. The movement made his cock slip even deeper into Sherlock's mouth until John could feel it hitting the back of Sherlock’s throat. Panicking, John tried to pull out, but was stopped by a tight grip on his arse. Sherlock swayed John's hips back and forth, forcing him deeper and deeper down his wet, hot throat.

It was such an absurd thing to do, that it took John a few thrusts to realise the man was fucking his own mouth with John's cock.

_Oh, sweet Jesus._

It felt good. Too good. He could feel Sherlock swallow around his glans, almost gagging but still keeping John firmly in place, his fingers digging deeper into John’s buttocks.

"Please, can I..." he started, but then Sherlock did something with his tongue, and the words died on his lips. Only after a few sharp breaths did he get enough control over his own tongue to try again. "Can I… Can I touch you?"

He dared to glance down at Sherlock, whose red and swollen lips were stretched around the base of his cock, John's entire length in his mouth. John gasped, almost driven over the edge from the mere sight of Sherlock sucking him off.

"Please," he repeated, sounding embarrassingly desperate.

Sherlock closed his eyes slowly. John decided to interpret that as a yes, lowered his bound hands on the top of Sherlock's head and pushed his fingers into the dark mop of hair.

It felt just as incredible as he had imagined it. Soft and thick, the endless curls tangling around his fingers like they had a mind of their own. He didn't dare grab hold of the hair, didn't try to move or control Sherlock in any way, but simply caressed the tousled hair, massaged the scalp gently and brushed away any lock of hair that might obstruct his view of the beautiful face beneath it all. Even though he refused to admit it, the fact that his hands were tied made it all the more arousing. He felt imprisoned and in charge, simultaneously. It was absolutely fucking incredible.

Then he felt it. It was upon him almost before he even fully grasped what was happening. The tightness in his balls, the quickly building pressure at the bottom of this stomach.

"Am I… Am I allowed to come, sir?"

John wasn't sure how or why that last word had slipped in, but it felt appropriate. Sherlock, however, didn't seem to find it at all suitable.

John's cock popped out of his mouth with a wet sound and was left hanging dangerously close to climax. All Sherlock would have to do was exhale deeply in its direction, and John feared he would come screaming. But Sherlock did no such thing. Instead, he jumped to his feet, looking deeply irritated.

"What, already?" he snapped at John. "No, you are not allowed to come, slave. What is wrong with you? I was prepared to continue with this for at least another ten minutes, the average time for ejaculation from fellatio alone being approximately sixteen minutes, based on the selection of material I was able to gather."

John stared at him, not quite certain which bit of information to tackle first. He then decided it was best to start with an apology - for whatever, it didn’t usually matter - and work his way up from there.

"I'm sorry?" There was no way to disguise the question in his voice. "It's been a while since I... and it just felt so... Wait. By material, you mean porn?" He waited for Sherlock to nod impatiently. "That's what you were watching on the computer last night? Porn? That was research? For this? Meaning you haven't...?"

"Yes, yes, yes, and no. I told you this isn't really my area. Well, _it really isn't my area_." Sherlock stopped by the bed and signalled John to get on it. "Now, will you please get your cock over here, so we can get on with this? On your back, hands above your head. You may take hold of the headboard if it helps. And now, before I remove my clothes, this is your last chance to have the blindfold. I doubt I’ll be able to offer it to you any time during."

John took the few shaky steps to close the distance between him and the bed and crawled into the assigned position. Even though he had been naked for a while already - about six minutes, according to Sherlock - stretching out on the bed made him feel even more exposed. With his bound hands lying above his head and his heavy erection swaying between his thighs, he felt much like a piece of meat hanging in the corner at a butcher's shop. It was even worse than at the auction, where there was at least noise and movement and others in equally degrading positions. But here it was just him and Sherlock, who was still fully dressed in an immaculate dark grey suit and a white shirt.

It was only then that John realised Sherlock was looking at him impatiently, and he hurried to answer.

"No. No blindfold. Please."

"Fine. Suit yourself."

As Sherlock started taking his clothes off and fold them meticulously over the chair, John found himself wondering about the mechanics of what was about to follow. It made little sense for Sherlock to have him lie on his back, unless he intended to take him this way, which meant there might be a chance of some manual stimulation being thrown his way. The mere thought made his cock twitch in anticipation. But for the life of him, he couldn't figure out why Sherlock would bother pleasuring him, when he could just bend him over and bugger him six ways from Sunday. And it was only Thursday.

Then, all of a sudden, it dawned on him. Sherlock had never done this before. His only frame of reference came from porn.

"You know, you don't actually have to get me off to fuck me."

"Excuse me?" Sherlock had just removed the last item of clothing. John fought against the urge to sneak a peek.

"I mean, if you find it objectionable, there's really no need. To reciprocate." John found himself feeling even more awkward than he had a moment ago. And that was pretty damn awkward. "The owner can just take what he wants. There's no need to, you know, pleasure the slave. That's just something they do in porn. It isn't real."

Sherlock took his time answering. When he finally spoke, it was in an overly calm tone, the kind you might use when talking to a simple-minded child.

"I told you that very first night, when I brought you back here from the auction, that I would not brutalise you, did I not?"

John nodded. It seemed the question of whether or not 'sodomy' fell into the realm of brutality was about to be answered.

"I have never lied to you, John."

John found himself thinking about things that Sherlock had said to him at one point or another during their time together: "Of course it's not poisoned" - "It is perfectly safe" -  “There will be no permanent damage.”

Obviously Sherlock had similar memories, as he was quick to add, "Well, never about anything that matters.” Then in all his naked glory, Sherlock turned his back to John. “So, believe me when I say that I have no intention of taking you by force."

At first, all John could see was the surprisingly muscular back, which ended in the curve of his nicely rounded arse. Really very nicely rounded, actually. And then, suddenly, the only thing John could see was the end of something plastic, which was clearly sticking out of Sherlock’s anus.

"I've had this butt-plug - as they are vulgarly called - inside me for the better part of an hour now. You have spent enough time in my presence to make your own deductions as to why that might be."

John stared. It was impossible not to stare. He had never before seen such a thing, let alone put any thought into why a person would choose to wear one. But as he now observed the way Sherlock's pucker stretched around the black base on the plug, he was fairly sure he understood the point of it.

The thought of Sherlock having that thing inside him while he had been sucking John's cock made him feel slightly dizzy. So much so that he was glad to be lying down.

No, there were no two ways about it: his master had prepared both himself and John with the intention of being buggered by his slave. Which, judging by his need to consult pornography to learn how to give a blow-job, would most likely be his very first time with a man. Possibly with anyone.

"Good. I can tell by your face that you've reached the right conclusion. I needed to get you aroused enough to be able to penetrate me, and pleasuring you orally was the only thing I was able to absorb from the video data in such a short time. However, I suspect that after seeing this ridiculous device, my efforts to provide you with an erection must undoubtedly have been futile."

Sherlock turned around with a disappointed and mildly irritated look on his face. But on finding John lying in the same position on the bed, with his tied hands against the headboard and with a cock so painfully hard it was starting to leak drops of pre-come, Sherlock's eyes first widened, then narrowed, and his entire face lit up.

"I see. So not all that futile, after all. You are nothing if not unsurprising, John Watson."

Now that Sherlock's clothes were off, John could see why he had held on to them for so long: the man was so hard he could barely climb onto the bed without the tip of his erection getting caught in the linen.

"Can I…” John started, then decided to reformulate. “Am I allowed to make a request?"

"If it's for a condom, I assure you there is no need for one. As I understand, the Houses check the slaves regularly, and as for myself..." Sherlock paused for a moment, before repeating, "There is no need."

"No, I just wondered if I could--"

"Fine, you may have the blindfold. I told you it would make--"

"No," John interrupted him, then realised what he had done. "I'm sorry. I just... That's not what I meant. I just wondered if I could touch you. Again. Sir."

"Why on earth would you do that? And since when have you started calling me ‘sir’?"

"I just thought that you want to get it over with as soon as possible, right? And I think that it might help. The touching, I mean."

"How?" Sherlock looked down his half-naked body, and John was happy to follow suit. The man sitting between his thighs was pale and lean, nearly hairless and beautifully toned. The similarity to a Greek statue was a fairly obvious one, but John found it justified all the same. "I'm your owner, John. There's nobody on earth who a slave despises more than his owner, so I fail to see how it would in any way help you to touch--"

It was the only way shut him up. Really it was. John had to struggle up to a nearly sitting position for his bound hands to reach Sherlock's chest, but as soon as his fingertips touched the porcelain skin, it all became very clear to him.

This was what he had been wanting for quite some time, possibly from the very start. Yes, come to think of it, he had been mesmerised the moment this striking man had stopped in front of him at the auction, looked right through him with those absurdly coloured eyes of his. Just looked, not probed and prodded like all the others. Sherlock had never touched him against his will, and even now, when he was pressured, for some unknown reason, into having sex with John, he still defied his role, refused to use John like a master would a slave.

John had been wrong: he wasn’t about to be taken by his master - his master intended to be taken by him. The amount of blood this notion had rushing down towards his groin was just absurd.

 _Oh, god_ , was all John could think, _I’m falling for him, aren’t I? What kind of a sad fuck falls for his owner?_

However, all of that vanished from his mind as John's tied hands slid down Sherlock's sternum, circled his left nipple cautiously, ready to pull back the moment Sherlock told him to get his filthy hands off of him. But Sherlock said nothing, did nothing. John found that this encouraged him to venture further. Slowly he leaned forward until his lips touched Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock inhaled sharply, but didn’t push him away. John couldn’t bare to look at him, but stared at the bare chest in front of him instead. When he placed the first light kiss on Sherlock’s nipple - the right one, this time - he closed his eyes and prepared to be smacked on the head.

Still nothing. There was merely a low murmur, like the purr of a cat, that sounded from somewhere deep inside Sherlock. John took this to be a positive sign, snatched the nipple gently between his teeth, while his hands continued their way down, over the flat stomach and into the soft curls of hair surrounding the base of his penis.

Once there, John hesitated. He wanted to wrap his hands around the shaft, but felt this was where his liberties ended and a further permission was needed.

He let go of the nipple for long enough to glance up at Sherlock's face for the first time. Sherlock had his eyes closed, his head was thrown back and his lips had fallen slightly apart to reveal the tip of his tongue licking his front teeth.

"Sherlock?" Then, as no answer came, he tried, "Sir?"

"No." This time the reply was prompt. Sherlock opened his eyes and looked down. "I told you never to call me that."

"Sorry. I'm sorry. If you don't want me to touch your--"

"Stop talking."

John closed his mouth.

"You didn't have to do that.” Sherlock tilted his head, and his gaze pierced right through John. He looked like a predator, and John was his tasty herbivore. “I didn't ask for it. It in no way benefits your situation."

"I know. I just... I wanted to. Sorry."

Sherlock considered something for a brief moment, before he said, "I don't know what perversion of the Stockholm Syndrome you're suffering from, but if it means we can get through this as painlessly as possible, then by all means, touch whatever part of my body you like.”

“Um… Thank you.” John bit his tongue not to add the ‘sir’, as tempting as it was.

Sherlock pushed John down on his back again and shifted himself till he was sitting astride John’s upper thighs. John couldn’t help admiring the smooth white skin that seemed to go on forever, the slender body that pillared above him in all its naked glory.

“So, John. You have my permission to touch my cock, while I, in turn, use yours to fuck my, by now, I hope, sufficiently stretched arse."

 _Good god_. It was those filthy words - _cock, fuck, arse_ \- right there in the middle of Sherlock's otherwise polished language, that had John gasping.

Sherlock saw it. Of course he did. And he smiled.

John decided it was the most beautiful thing in all of creation.

 

///

 

Afterwards, every time John thought back to that night, it was all a bit of a blur.

He remembered Sherlock making a mess with the tube of lubricant, which John had begged him to use generously - vigorously protesting Sherlock's initial idea of 'making do without'.

He remembered the anal plug and his surprise at its size when Sherlock had eased it out of himself.

But most of all, John had an incredibly vivid memory of a naked and uncannily beautiful Sherlock sitting astride his lap - bony knees pressing painfully against his ribs - long fingers grasping at him for support and leaving angry red marks on his chest - dark curls a sweaty mess, clinging to his face - and finally, that gorgeous mouth of his, hanging partly open and making the most obscene noises as he sank down on John’s cock. Had John not been convinced that they were genuine, he might have thought Sherlock had copied them from the porn films he had been studying.

John couldn't actually recall what it felt like to be buried inside Sherlock, but he did remember the look on Sherlock's face, the utter amazement at what their bodies - his own, John's - were capable of, the pleasure to be had in each other.

After that, things got a bit sketchy. John was fairly certain that he had come inside Sherlock. There might have been some screaming, but he was sure it had been quite manly and not at all desperate or needy. And he definitely had not kept shaking for nearly ten minutes after his orgasm.

Sherlock’s plan had apparently been to tie him up and blindfold him - maybe to allow him to enjoy the fantasy of being inside a woman with freely bouncing breasts - then ride him while bringing himself to orgasm on top of him. Apparently the last part had been significant, for some reason, since John had a recollection of Sherlock smearing his come all over John’s chest and neck while muttering something about ‘that damned sniffer dog’. However, he was absolutely certain that it had been him that made Sherlock come. The fact that his hands were tied had made it a little challenging, but Sherlock had been so close to edge already that, in the end, John barely needed to touch him.

When they lay sweaty and sticky and spent next to each other on Sherlock's bed, John ventured to ask what had made Sherlock decide that they would have to have sex and what it had to do with his brother's upcoming visit. However, no actual explanation was given to him. All Sherlock agreed to say was that he had had a change of heart about something, but his brother was too stubborn to accept it.

“To Mycroft, sex is a foreign land. He’ll never notice the difference.”

Well, that explained it all.

John half-expected to be driven back to his own bed after the deed was done, but Sherlock just got up and disappeared into the bathroom, announcing on his way that John could go and clean himself up after him.

But when John had had a wash and turned the lights off in the bathroom, he hovered on the doorstep for a while, trying to decide, which way he was supposed to go.

"I already have enough of your scent in the sheets. You are free to sleep wherever you choose.”

Hearing that, John took a hesitant step inside Sherlock’s bedroom. "Including here?"

"If you so choose." It was simply a statement, but John could have sworn he heard a smile behind it.

“Slaves don’t choose. We’re ordered.”

“Then I’m ordering you to choose.”

Sherlock turned his back and wrapped the dressing gown he had thrown on tighter around him. John walked to the empty side of the bed, picking up his T-shirt and boxers on they way and putting them back on.

“I’m warning you, though,” Sherlock added. “You won’t get another shag out of me tonight.”

“I’ll try to live with that.”

John was smiling stupidly when he crawled into bed next to Sherlock. He didn’t dare touch him, but just lay there quietly, with his back to Sherlock’s back. He was cold now that the adrenaline high was over, and he missed his pyjama bottoms that waited for him up in his room. Nothing, however, could have made him leave Sherlock’s bed, when it had been so generously offered to him. None of his previous owners had let him _sleep_ with them, regardless of whether they had used him for sex or not. Slaves were not used for “the boyfriend experience”: common whores were much more convenient and considerably cheaper.

Just when John was about to drift off to sleep, he felt the bed shift as Sherlock turned around. John held his breath, expecting that Sherlock had changed his mind, after all, and that this time, it really would be John’s turn to be taken. It surprised him to notice that the thought of Sherlock pulling down his boxers and entering him from behind right then and there didn’t actually frighten him. In fact, his cock showed definite interest in the scenario, and John had to slide his leg forward to keep his returning erection at bay.

Then, there was movement behind him and a sheet was pulled over him, all the way up to his chest. John felt the warmth of shared body heat spread to his shivering body and realised that Sherlock must be under the same sheet.

“Sleep, John. Mycroft announced that he’ll be here first thing tomorrow morning, which in his case might well mean the first light of dawn.”

John was just about to turn around to ask Sherlock more about his brother, when he felt a hand being placed softly on top of the sheet, right below the curve of his hip.

John waited. And he waited. Finally he felt he might fall asleep if nothing happened.

And nothing did.

Sherlock’s hand never moved. It simply rested there on John’s hip, warm and heavy, until sleep took him over.


	2. The Runaway Slave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: **Graphic violence** and **sexual violence** , including **rape/non-con**. I suggest you check the tags before reading!

"I'm afraid this won't do, brother dear."

John had hated Mycroft Holmes from the moment he set his foot over the threshold, and the feeling had only grown during the fifteen minutes he had spent talking down to his brother and treating John like something only barely distinguishable from a spittoon.

By now John had already skidded past deep resentment, reached murderous rage and was calculating how best to cut the man’s throat without getting blood of the carpet.

"You can't take him. He’s mine." Sherlock's voice was quivering in a way John had never witnessed before. He sat down with a slight wince and threw his right leg over his left a little more tensely than usual. "You  gave him to me, Mycroft."

"Yes," Mycroft drawled, looking John up and down, assessing him like he was a cheap ornament. Based on the frown on his face, John suspected that he clashed terribly with the rest of the decor.

"I can tell you have exploited the benefits of being a slave owner," Mycroft continued and turned his gaze back to Sherlock, who was now sitting with his left leg over the right. "Interesting choice of roles, though. I would never have thought of you as the submissive party, Sherlock. It must still sting a bit, if your constant need to change position is anything to go by. Hardly surprising, given John's measurements. You really ought to have inspected him more closely before you bought him. I'm sure there were less handsomely endowed slaves who would have been better suited to act as the 'top' to your 'bottom'."

John knew his face was as red as his hatred for this man. For once he was grateful for the collar: it reminded him what a bad idea assaulting Mycroft would be.

"John's genitals are perfectly proportioned for my purposes,” Sherlock said coolly. “And if you must know all the sordid details, I prefer to _ride_ him. That hardly counts as 'bottoming', would you say?"

"Oh, do spare me the pain of visualising the act," Mycroft spat and waved the unsavoury image away. "The fact remains, that you have failed to keep your end of the bargain, and so the slave will be returned to the auction house and another procured for you. This time I think I will choose the specimen myself."

"Bargain?" John looked questioningly at Sherlock. "What bargain?"

"Do keep your slave quiet, when his betters are speaking. This only goes to show that you haven't performed your duties as his owner according to our agreement."

Sex. This was about sex. John couldn't believe he hadn't realised it sooner. That was why Sherlock had initiated sex with him in the first place: because of some twisted pact he had made with his brother. And now it was all about to be caught up on some stupid technicality, like whose cock was inside whose arse.

"He fucked me!" John couldn't help exclaiming in between. "Who the hell cares if he was on top or not? He can bloody well bugger me right here in front of your sorry eyes if that's what it takes!"

Mycroft laughed. The bastard laughed. A high and whiny laughter, much like a girl's.

"How very ready he is to sacrifice himself! Charming, but not really what we agreed upon, is it?" Mycroft’s smile turned wicked. "Tell him, Sherlock."

It took Sherlock a few tries to clear his throat before he spoke. "I was to treat the slave as... a slave. In every respect. To have him do my chores, to use him for my pleasure and... to punish him, when needed."

"Which you have obviously failed to do."

"The need hasn't arisen."

"Oh, come now. Then why are there dirty dishes on the kitchen table? Why was my tea served cold? And why is the slave sitting on a perfectly good chair when he ought to be kneeling at your feet?" Mycroft made a tsk-tsk sound and shook his head. "All very valid reasons for a jolly-good thrashing, and all testament to the fact that you have neglected to give him one."

"I told you, I’ve changed my mind. Just let me take care of this." Sherlock was _pleading_ , John realised to his horror. In all his time with Sherlock, he had never once heard his beg for anything. Apart from cigarettes, which Mrs Hudson kept hiding from him. "You have made your point and had your fun already. There is no need to take this charade any further."

"Oh, there is every need, brother mine. Or need I remind you what is at stake here?"

"Please," Sherlock spat. "I will solve the case, because it interests me, not because it's for the greater good or some such nonsense."

"Spoken like a trueborn Englishman."

Then Mycroft turned to John and started what could only be described as a lecture. "You see, my brother was investigating a certain something in connection with the auction houses, and in order to do that, he needed to buy a slave. One can't simply browse forever without making a purchase, after all. And for some unimaginable reason he decided on you, of all the slaves on offer." Mycroft's voice adopted a tone that was a mixture of pity and glee. It made the hair stand up at the back of John's neck. "Now, my brother has very little interest in money, which meant he had no way of purchasing you himself, so he turned to me and my wallet. For reasons beyond you, we agreed on a few simple rules, by which he was to abide, and as only one of them has been followed to the letter, I'm afraid the deal is off. You may go and pack now, what little you may possess."

Sherlock was up on his feet now. John couldn't help but notice the extra effort it took him to walk straight and without grimacing as he strode across the sitting room. He came to a halt only inches from his brother's face.

"I have repaid you the sum in full."

"Yes, thank you for that." The smile never left Mycroft's face. "It was for the case of the missing banker you took on, wasn't it? Hardly worth your while, wouldn’t you say?"

John remembered the banker business. He had wondered about it himself, finding it curious that Sherlock would take on a case that seemed so beneath his talent. But now that he thought about it, the bank in question had been one of the bigger ones and yes, there had been that slim white envelope, which his client had slipped into Sherlock's hand when the case had been successfully closed.

Sherlock had taken that case just for the money. To buy himself out of his deal with Mycroft. To buy John for his own.

If it hadn't been for the slavery bit, John would have found it incredibly romantic.

“However,” Mycroft continued, “I think I’ll hang on to John’s contract for the time being, if it’s all the same to you, Sherlock.”

"Fine," came Sherlock's voice, followed by the sound of his belt buckle being opened. "If that's what it takes, I'll give him a 'jolly-good thrashing' right now. John, trousers off!"

John stared at him, and all romantic notions went flying out the window.

"But I haven't done anything," he managed to say. "Shouldn't I be punished for a reason?"

"Well, my brother was right. The tea was, indeed, cold. So, bend over and let's get this over with. I have other things to attend to this morning besides your behind. You care to watch, Mycroft, or do such bodily matters disagree with you digestion?"

Mycroft appeared so pleased with himself he was actually humming. "I can take it just fine, thank you for your concern. But I fear your slave is reluctant to accept his punishment."

"Damn right I am." John had dug his heels in the carpet and had no intention of moving an inch, let alone dropping his trousers in front of the Holmes brothers. "The tea would've been fine, if you two hadn't spent the first fifteen minutes bickering about the bloody time of day! No, I'm not going to be beaten for something I didn't do!"

Sherlock shot him an angry glare and wrapped the end of the belt around his hand tight enough to turn his long fingers dark purple.

"John." The word was barely a whisper, but it held so much power that it took John every effort not to obey.

"See, the slave needs to be disciplined. Now, off you pop," Mycroft said cheerfully to John and signalled up the stairs. Of course the brother of Sherlock Holmes knew exactly where his slave slept. "The car will take you where you belong. I think I'll put down 'behavioural problems' as the reason for the return."

"No!" The word escaped John's lips before he could stop himself. "If you put that, they'll place me in the correctional unit. Please. Just... don't."

"Yes, that would be your third offence, wouldn't it? Don't look at me like that. Of course I've read you file. Do you think I would've allowed you into my brother's home if I hadn't?" Mycroft turned back to Sherlock, who was still standing far too close to him for comfort, the belt quivering in his hand. "John here was especially naughty with his last male owner. Beat the poor man within inch of his life, then tried to do a runner - and failed, obviously. The auction houses have a highly efficient web of agents, no slave ever gets as far as the corner pub before they're caught. And the Houses are rather cross with disobedient slaves, aren't they, John?"

To describe the reception he had received when he had been returned to the auction house as being "rather cross" was the understatement of the century. John had been hurt in ways he hadn't even thought possible. And he had seen war, after all.

The thought of being taken back into the correctional unit was enough to turn his stomach.

"Please. I won't make it through another round." John lifted his head to find Sherlock's eyes. "Beat me for the bloody tea if you must. Just don't send me back."

"Then I suggest Sherlock here takes care that there will be no more behavioural problems. Hmm?" Mycroft looked expectantly at Sherlock. After a moment of total stillness, there was a barely visible nod and a grunt, which Mycroft happily accepted as a yes.

"Splendid." Mycroft glanced at his watch and tutted. "I'm afraid this little get-together has taken longer than scheduled already, so I won't be able to stay for the main event. But I shall return tomorrow to see if... No, wait. I'm in Istanbul tomorrow. The day after that, then. You will have two whole days to discipline your slave, Sherlock. I expect to see some result. You do not want to disappoint me."

Before he stepped through the doorway, Mycroft turned once more on his shiny shoes, and added, "Oh, and Sherlock? Do try to give him one somewhere amidst all the beating. We both know you've never been much of a _rider_ , don't we?"

With that, Mycroft slithered out of the flat, leaving only a silvery trail of sleaze behind him.

Left alone, neither John nor Sherlock spoke a word but just sat in silence for a good while, John by the kitchen table, Sherlock in his chair. Then finally John thought he might explode if he didn't say something.

"Fancy a cuppa before you start belting me?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock was waken from his intense thinking. "Yes. Tea would be lovely."

They drank their (hot) tea and ate some soggy biscuits, still not saying a word about what had happened. Or what was to happen.

When his mug was drained, Sherlock excused himself and disappeared into his room. As no order was given for John to follow, he remained right where he was, sitting at the table, holding his (cold) mug with both hands.

  


///

  


"John, get your coat."

John was startled to hear Sherlock's voice after hours of silence. He had been sitting by the kitchen table, afraid to do anything but wait for Sherlock to carry out the task Mycroft had so gleefully given him. He had thought long and hard about his options, which included such exciting choices as belt, cane or riding crop - the last of which he knew Sherlock owned, though he dared not think what for. But with whichever of those devices his punishment would be dealt out, it wouldn’t matter. The pain of it would be worth it: it would keep him from being sent back to the auction house. And more importantly, it would keep him here, with Sherlock.

But now Sherlock was standing in the doorway with his Belstaff and blue scarf on, waiting for John none too patiently.

"What, a case? But Sherlock, we still haven't--"

"No talking. Your coat, John."

Before long John found himself standing in a street corner, outside their nearest pub. Without a word, Sherlock pulled the door open and held it open for John to enter. When they were seated at a small table by the stained glass window, with two pints of lager and two shots of whisky in front of them, John dared to voice his concern.

"What’s going on here?"

"Can't a man take his slave out for drinks without there being ulterior motives?"

"No, he bloody well can't!" John snapped, then took a long sip of his beer. It had been ages since he had had one, so despite the suspicious circumstances, he'd be damned if he didn't enjoy it. "So, what is this? Is this for a case or not?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Just drink up. I already paid for two more rounds. Don't make me waste my money."

As he watched Sherlock down his pint without the slightest sign that he took any pleasure in the act, it all became perfectly clear to John. He lifted the shot of whisky and swallowed it in with one gulp. It burned the inside of his mouth, his throat and all the way down to his belly. Until that moment, John hadn’t even realised how much he had missed that fire. The spark of life.

"You plan on getting me drunk,” he said as soon as the worst of the burning had died down and his tongue could move again. “That's it, isn't it? You get me drunk enough not to care about the punishment you plan on giving me." He slammed the empty glass onto the table a little harder than intended. A few of the people around them turned their heads in their direction. "That's just great. A drunken beating. Classic."

"I suggest you keep your voice down, unless you want an audience to go with it."

"Oh, I don't think there's a single person here who would want to watch you smack my hairy arse pink. Even you, as my owner, don't seem too keen to look at me. Like your brother already pointed out, I’m hardly bed-slave material."

Sherlock frowned, taken aback. "I was under the impression that initially you were rather relieved to find that I had no particular interest in sexual matters."

"Yes, I was." John hesitated. "I am."

"Which was only to be expected, given the gruesome experience you'd recently had with a male owner."

Sherlock knew about that rapist bastard? Fuck. Of course he did. The records only mentioned that John had assaulted him and tried to escape, but Sherlock didn’t bother reading records. He could probably tell John's entire sexual history by the way he buttered his toast.

John had to use both hands to lift the pint to his lips. He kept it there long after he had actually stopped drinking. The dissolving foam tickled his nose.

"Is that why you chose me? You wanted something - damaged?"

"I chose you because you were different. Strong, independent, resourceful, capable of defending yourself."

"Against what?" John swallowed. "Against you?"

“Of course not. I already told you I wouldn’t hurt you.” Sherlock got up. "Fetch the second round while I visit the bathroom."

As soon as Sherlock had disappeared through the doorway to the gents, John emptied both his own and Sherlock's pint. As much as it pained him to admit it, Sherlock might have a point: if he truly was to be disciplined tonight, he might as well be hammered out of his mind during it.

John went to the bar to get their pre-paid drinks, but when he returned with his tray, he found their table occupied by a group of four loud young men. He stared at them for a while, hoping his mere presence would be enough to convey the message. But as nothing happened, he set the tray down right in the middle of the group's glasses, cleared his throat and said, "Sorry, mates, but the table's already taken."

One of the blokes turned towards him, cocked his head and took a long look at John, especially his neck, before answering.

"Yes, it is now, _mate_ . Aren't your kind supposed to sit on the floor, or what?" He nudged the man next to him to get his attention. "Look. A fucking slave. With a collar on and everything! And it has the fucking nerve to talk to me like a real person. I mean - _what the fuck_?!"

Now the rest of the men were starting to get interested as well, two of them had even stood up and taken a few steps forward to get a closer look at John.

"Listen, I just want to have a nice quiet drink, yeah?" John tried, biting his tongue to keep calm. "So why don't I take this and find another--"

But before he could pick up the tray, the man who had spoken to him grabbed one of the pints and raised it high enough for his mates to notice.

"Hey, the slave's brought us free drinks! Go and get us a packet of crisps each, too. Chop-chop!"

That was when John felt a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t need to turn around: the smell of Sherlock’s hair product and his aftershave lotion and his slightly damp coat was enough to tell John that he was standing right behind him, taking in the scene in front of them.

"John, are these our drinks?"

But before John could answer, the loudest of the men got up with the now half-empty pint in his hand and roared, "Is this your owner, then? Fucking hell. Look, it's a bloke! He's got a _master_! And his master's got girl's hair!"

"Fucking poofter!"

The loudest young man - who himself had something like girl’s hair, in John’s mind - leaned in closer to Sherlock. Far too close for John’s comfort.

"Does he give good head, your slave? Must be brilliant, for a poofter like you, to have an arse you can fuck as much as you like. You can just fuck his arsehole till it bleeds and there's not a fucking thing he can do about it, eh?"

Girlie-Hair turned to his companions to have them join in on the drunken chuckle. John, on the other hand, used his opportunity to step behind him, took aim and placed a sharp kick squarely in the back of the bastard’s right knee. As expected, Girlie-Hair's injured leg buckled under him and he started to fall. But before he could hit the floor, John grabbed him by the hair, forced his head back and then thrust it forward as hard as he could. The bang on the edge of the table sent the glasses flying, and soon the whole entourage was up and cursing, with beer-soaked jeans, while their friend slid silently under the table to rest in a pool of lager.

"John." The grip of Sherlock's hand on John’s shoulder tightened. “I think it might be time for us to leave.”

"Yeah. I'm going home with my master now,” John told the lot around and under the table. “I'm going to suck so much cock that I'll choke on jizz. And d'you know what? I consider myself better off than you sad wankers."

Before the group had time to turn into an angry mob with wet trousers, Sherlock ushered John out of the pub.

As they made their way down Baker street, it wasn't exactly at a running pace. More like a really brisk walk.

They never quite made it to No. 221, however.

The rush of adrenaline had quickly died down after they left the pub, and had been replaced by the awful realisation of what John had done. The pressure kept building inside him, until only a block away from Sherlock's flat, John decided there was no choice but to let it all out or be crushed under the pressure.

"I'm sorry," he started breathlessly. After that, the words burst out of him in no particular order. "I handled that... Well, it wasn't good. I wasn't... That's not what a slave should... I mean, we're not supposed to, not ever. And I know you took me there to get me drunk and make it easier to get through the beating, and after what I did just now, you definitely have every reason to punish me, but I understand if you don't even want to keep me any--"

Right in the middle of John's blabbering, Sherlock suddenly pulled him into an alleyway and slammed him right up against the brick wall. John glanced around: there were bins on his left and a half-full skip on his right, which blocked the view to the street pretty much entirely. And the moment he heard the roaring voices coming towards them along the street, he understood that the skip also hid them pretty efficiently from sight. Sherlock pressed his body against John, gesturing him to keep silent, which he would have done anyway. In fact, he held his breath until the gang of four had moved further away.

"Jesus Christ, that was close. Lucky thing you--"

The kiss came as such a surprise that John had neither the time nor the sense even to close his eyes, but stared straight into Sherlock's forehead all the while his mouth was being attacked. Because that was what it felt like: a clumsy, almost violent assault on his lips. Sherlock pressed on with such force that John found himself pinned tightly against the rugged wall behind him, his mouth full of Sherlock’s tongue that seemed to get everywhere, his lungs getting in nothing but Sherlock’s used-up air.

The kiss was too sudden and too wet and far too brutal. However, the biggest shock came, when John realised, that despite its suddenness and wetness and brutality, he was responding to the kiss. He didn't dare move his hands from his sides, he hadn't been given permission to touch his owner, but he did tilt his head and open his mouth, let his tongue taste Sherlock's.

Nope. There was no denying it. He was definitely kissing Sherlock back.

Sherlock's long, elegant fingers cupped his face gently, almost tenderly, while his mouth continued to devour him needily, almost desperately. It was so incredibly hot that John lost himself in the moment completely.

"Sherlock..." he heard himself sigh between kisses. Possibly moan. Or something equally embarrassing.

That made Sherlock pull back at arm's length. The sight of him nearly took John's breath away: his curls air in disarray, cheeks flushed, those full lips so deliciously debauched. It was almost too much for John to take in. To think that this beautiful man had kissed him, had actually _wanted_ him enough to kiss him… If it hadn’t been for the look on Sherlock’s face, John probably would’ve dropped down on his knees and sucked him off without even being ordered to. But as it was, Sherlock didn’t appear too pleased with John’s performance so far.

“Sherlock...? Is something wrong? Did I do something…?”

"Why?" Sherlock asked, his brows furrowed in question. "Why would you do that? Tell me this instant!"

"Oh. Right. Sorry.” Even if he had tried, John couldn’t have hidden how much he was hurting right now. Then again, he doubted Sherlock cared in the least how he felt. “You don't want me to... participate?"

John found himself being studied, carefully, meticulously. Those amazing eyes narrowed, as if concentrating their power like a pair of pale blue lasers. They cut right through him, slicing him up into little pieces and analysing him bit by bit.

“I didn’t ask you to participate,” was all Sherlock said.

“No, of course not. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

John half-expected to get a slap for his insolence, but instead, Sherlock reached out and stroked his cheek with his thumb, still with that same puzzled look on his face. The touch was so tender that for the briefest of moments, John could pretend that there was something more between them than simple ownership, more than friendship, even.

Then the moment passed, and Sherlock's hand slid slowly down to rest on John's collar, his eyes flickering back and forth as he studied the piece of leather under his fingertips. John already knew that flicker hid behind it a series of incredibly complicated calculations and a multitude of scenarios, all being run near-simultaneously in that massive brain of his. But as far as John could tell, there were no murderers to be caught here, no mysteries to be solved. There was only a slave and his master and really just the one way this could end. And John had no problem with that.

“I’ll do whatever you want me to,” John tried. “I’ll be passive, submissive, whatever. Just don’t let your brother send me away.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said slowly. “You would do anything not to be sent back to the correctional unit.”

That wasn’t exactly what John had meant, but he didn’t dare correct his master.

At last, Sherlock appeared to come to a conclusion. John could see the change in his eyes, feel the sudden harshness in his touch. He would’ve said it was like Jekyll and Hyde, except he could never quite remember which of them was supposed to be the good one. And this being Sherlock, it could be argued that there was only the bad one, which occasionally turned into the even worse one. And that was the one John was staring at right now.

"You want to stay,” Sherlock said, abandoning his gentle touch on John’s cheek and pressing his fingernails slowly into his skin and making John gasp from the sudden pain. “Then maybe it's time I put my purchase to use, what do you say? That is what you are for, after all."

He grabbed hold of John's arms and swung him around in one swift motion. Before he could word a protest, John was shoved face first against the building, with his hands pinned up on the wall.

"Stay." Sherlock placed one hand on top of John's wrists, his long and no longer elegant fingers holding both of John’s hands firmly in place, while his other hand snaked around John’s waist and started undoing his trousers. "Just stay still like a good little slave. This won't take long."

The shock hit John at the same time as the cold air hit his bare behind.

He was going to be raped, right here, behind a skip in some alley.

No, not raped. A slave couldn't be raped, of course. But he would be taken. His master would take him, right here next to the rubbish bins, and there was nothing he could do about it.

"Please, Sherlock, I--"

But when he heard Sherlock's low whisper right next to his ear, John already knew the game was lost. The Sherlock, who had held him and kissed him was gone and only the worse one remained.

"I've kept from doing this simply because you are so disgustingly unattractive. But I don't have to look at you in order to fuck you, do I?” Sherlock’s voice was so low John could feel the words vibrate against his skin. Cold, horrible words that he knew the real Sherlock would never have said to him. “Things are about to change from now on. My brother was right, I have been too lenient with you for far too long.”

“Sherlock, please stop--”

“I think,” Sherlock hummed against John’s neck, “that as soon as we're done here, I shall take you home and tie you to the kitchen table. Yes, face down and legs spread wide open. Then I can just bugger you whenever the mood should strike me, whether it’s tonight or tomorrow or next week. You will lie there waiting for your master’s cock for as long as it takes.”

Sherlock chuckled, his mouth brushing against John’s neck. Shivers ran through his entire body.

“In the meanwhile, I could just beat you with my belt, if you don’t show enough enthusiasm to be fucked. I bet I can make you beg for it. Yes, John. I will beat you till you beg for my _fat, hard cock up your arse_.”

John couldn’t help a whimper escape his lips when Sherlock uttered those last words, drawling them out in his lowest, darkest voice.

“I will pound you so hard you will scream your master’s name when I come inside you. And then I will leave you lying there, dripping blood and semen, waiting for the next time, whenever that may be.”

“Why are you doing this? Please, Sherlock...” John’s voice cracked. This couldn’t be the same man, who had sat with him in the pub and even referenced John’s previous, sadistic master. _That_ Sherlock had made it sound like he cared, like he condemned what the bastard had done to John, whereas _this_ Sherlock was threatening to put him through something ever worse.

“What do you say, John - shall I make you a _real slave_?"

All John could do was gasp, as he felt Sherlock press his groin against John's bare arse. Sherlock still had his trousers on, but there was no mistaking how hard he was. He started rutting against John’s arse slowly, teasingly, as if just to give him a taste of what was to come. John closed his eyes and found himself thinking back to what Sherlock had looked like on top of him, riding him, and what his cock had felt like in John’s hands. That piece of flesh was about to be rammed inside him, right here, right now.

John dug his nails in the cracks of the brick wall and leaned his forehead against the harsh coolness of it, and slowly, unwillingly, he opened his eyes to look down at his own erection.

He felt sick. How the hell could he be aroused by this, by those sadistic scenarios Sherlock had painted, by being threatened with rape out here in a fucking alley? Jesus Christ, what was wrong with him?!

John was willing to give his master whatever he wanted, that much was painfully clear. But not here, not where anybody could see them, not against the wall like some bloody street whore.

"Please, Sherlock, stop..." he begged one last time.

But the voice that answered did not belong to his master.

"Yes. Please stop," came the reply from somewhere nearby.

As Sherlock swung around to face the group, John let go of the wall and turned to see the whole gang of four and assess the situation. It didn't look good. If the lot had been pissed off at the pub, their little jog had made them even angrier still. They hadn't come empty-handed, either: two of the men were sporting pretty heavy-looking planks, and they all had gloves on to protect their precious knuckles. This was clearly not their first street brawl.

"Couldn't wait till you got home to fuck him, eh? Thought you’d just give him one up his arse right here in the street? Is he that good, or what?"

John was prepared when the first blow came, but it didn’t help him prevent it. The length of wood slammed heavily into his stomach and sent him gagging onto the ground. After that came the kicks, which kept finding their targets no matter how well he tried to protect himself with his arms. He more heard than felt the first rib breaking, and when the plank landed on his back, he knew instantly that he wouldn't be able to get up on his own.

From the corner of his eye he kept seeing glimpses of Sherlock, fighting with the two other men, but they seemed to be determined to restrain him rather than beating him up.

"Get the bin,” one of his attacker shouted to the other. “Yeah, it's perfect. Knock it over!"

There was a loud crash, and then John was heaved onto his stomach over what could only be the side of a large rubbish bin. He hung there with his feet barely touching the ground and with his whole weight on his broken ribs (there were two fractures now). Someone had his hands on his back, pressing him down hard enough to make breathing an agony.

"Don't." That was all Sherlock said. His voice sounded pained in John's ears, but not from injury to his body. "Let him go now, and I will let you live."

There was a roar of laughter. "Threatening us, are you? Didn't mummy teach you to share your toys?" More laughter, as if something hilarious had actually been said. "You'll get him back, don't worry. And you know what? We'll even let you watch, how 'bout that?"

And then John felt it. There was another man behind him now, but this one was not there to hold him down. No, he had something else in mind entirely.

The first of four, John thought, feeling oddly calm.

Someone shouted something about the benefits of wearing a rubber, and sure enough, there was some fumbling behind him before a cool, slick and clearly condom-clad piece of flesh was pressed against his pucker. John tried to struggle and kick the man away, even though he knew full well how futile an attempt it was.

"Spread ‘em, slave!" the young man behind him whined. John felt disgraced having to obey someone with so pathetically little authority, so he didn’t. The little brat had to force his legs apart and wedge himself between John’s thighs to keep them there. John braced himself for the pain, but to his surprise, it never came. He felt his entrance being stabbed at a couple of times, but with no success.

"It won't go in!" the brat shouted to his mates. "The fucking slave's too tight!"

This turn of events seemed to amuse the man who had suggested the bin and whose chuckle now sounded from somewhere to John’s left. "What's this, then? Haven't given your slave a good seeing-to in a while, eh?"

"Don't do this," said Sherlock's voice, surprisingly calmly. "You can just walk away and I won’t come after you."

This was the first time John dared to steal a glance at Sherlock, who was being held still on his knees with his hands bent behind his back. John recognised the man standing next to him and giving out orders as the one who had insulted Sherlock's hair back in the pub. Girlie-Hair had his hand on Sherlock’s neck, keeping his head turned towards the show. John was relieved to notice that Sherlock still had all his clothes on, not even his coat had been removed, meaning he was only meant to act as a spectator to the gang rape and hopefully not be subjected to any more violence himself. Still, Girlie-Hair did lean down to whisper things in Sherlock's ear from time to time, and always a bit too close, just as he had done in the pub. John was certain that if Girlie-Hair had his way, it would be Sherlock lying on the bin and not John.

"I'm telling you, I can't get it in!" yelled the whiny brat again and stopped the feverish stabbing with his cock, which was quickly turning soft.

"Well, we'll just have to open him up a bit first. Bass, lend me that bottle, will ya."

To John's horror, the man who had been holding him down did as requested and handed over the beer bottle he had been sipping from. Without warning, the long, slim neck of the bottle was lodged inside John. He tried to scream, but a hand was instantly pressed over his mouth, and his muffled voice was lost under the city’s night traffic buzzing in the background.

"Don't you go flailing around like that, you hear? You don't want to break the bottle, do you, now?"

And all four of them laughed. As John lay there helpless with a beer bottle rammed up his arse, the bastards merely laughed.

He braved another glance at Sherlock and found him staring at the ground in front of him, with a cold, almost vacant expression on his face. John was certain that even though he wasn't watching what was being done to John, there was little he did not see.

John felt a sharp pain in his gut as he realised what this meant to Sherlock: the humiliation of having to witness his property being damaged, degraded. And all of it just as he was about to have John for the first time, to use his property as it was meant to be used. It was obvious Sherlock was deeply disgusted with the scene in front of him.

John prepared to close his eyes and let his mind flee somewhere far away, where no one could harm him, when the situation took a drastic turn for the worse.

Maybe it was the alcohol kicking in or the arousing rape scene in front of him that did it, but Girlie-Hair, who had till then kept his advances on Sherlock in check, seemed to lose all restraint. With one of his mates still holding Sherlock down, he suddenly squatted down and attacked Sherlock's mouth as if intending to swallow him whole. John could see Sherlock trying to fend him off with a well-aimed head-butt, followed by an equally well-aimed spit in his eyes, but it was not enough. The bastard got his hands on Sherlock's shirt and ripped it open with a triumphant roar.

The moment John saw Sherlock's pale chest being exposed to Girlie-Hair's groping hands, he knew the time to act had come.

Judging by the increasingly sporadic thrusts of the lad working the bottle in and out of him and the fact that he had been leaning against John's thighs more and more heavily, could only mean he was working something else with his other hand and was very close to finishing.

Just wait for it, John told himself. Wait for it...

And then he could feel it coming. Could feel _him_ coming. This was his cue.

With a sharp kick back John managed to throw the brat off balance. He didn't hit him right in the groin but it was close enough to drop him. The brat’s high-pitched wail startled the man holding John down, allowing him to slip away from underneath his hands and slide off the bin. The second John was up on his feet, he threw a punch at him as hard as he could muster and hit him squarely on the jaw. It hurt like hell, but the sound the other man made was well worth it.

The brat on the ground whined something, apparently begging his mates to help him. John answered his call with one more kick, this time taking care to aim it right at his crotch and make it a good one. Another enjoyable wail sounded in the alley. It was, in fact, so enjoyable that John made sure to step on his fingers before leaving him writhe in pain amidst the rubbish that had fallen out of the upturned bin.

He hurried towards Sherlock, who had clearly wasted no time. Sherlock had already taken down the man that had been holding him - John spotted him crawling towards the street, spitting blood and sobbing like a child - and now it was Girlie-Hair’s turn.

"Sherlock!" John shouted and made to go and help him fight off the bastard who seemed to be getting the upper hand. But as soon as he heard Sherlock's reply, he stopped dead.

"Go. Get out of here." Sherlock gave the man a perfectly aimed punch in the gut, then turned to John. "How hard is that to understand? I want you out of my sight! Run away, slave!"

John staggered back a little at those words. That word.

Sherlock was telling him to go, ordering him to do a runner. The same man who had been kissing him only, what, ten minutes earlier? And now, after what had been done to him, his master wanted nothing to do with his slave any more.

"Run, you idiot! I never want to see your ugly face again!”

So John did as he was told. Against every instinct telling him to go back and help Sherlock fight his attacker, to attend his injuries, to never leave a man behind, John turned and he ran.


	3. The Shelter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: **Violence** (most of it only implied) and **anal sex** (definitely not just implied). 
> 
> Also, Sherlock has a lot of explaining to do, so consider yourself warned for that, as well:)

The grey and crumbling house at the end of Church Street had never really felt like home to John, not really. It seemed that no matter how much he tried to furnish his tiny bedroom on the second floor - be it with a worn bedspread or a pair of thinned curtains found at the fleamarket - it never managed to look anything beyond a temporary place of residence. Which, after nearly a month, it really wasn’t. Like it or not, the Shelter was now his home. There was no returning to Baker Street.

John knew he had already outstayed his welcome: there were no doubt plenty of runaway slaves who were in more dire need of a safe place to stay than he was. Of course, he tried to contribute to the slave collective, acting as both their GP and their officially appointed Maker of the Tea (no one put the kettle on quite like John). And the others seemed grateful, when he stitched up the wounds of the newcomers and sent them to bed with paracetamol. He could do little for the real damage, though: the psychological trauma, which most escaped slaves carried with them by the bucket, went far beyond his training and expertise. As for the emotional stuff... Well, he had enough of that of his own to deal with.

Only that morning, when John had woken up with an erection, as usual, and got off under the duvet, as usual, he had made a determined effort not to think about Sherlock. He had, instead, concentrated very hard on the girl who had served him the shish kebab the night before, and actually managed to get off with the picture of her with her kit off vivid in his mind.

Only, the girl’s eyes had been a bit off, as he was certain her eyes had been brown, whereas the fantasy girl’s eyes were much lighter, pale grey or blue or green, or some strange mixture of all three.

But there had definitely not been any dark curls or sharp cheekbones or stupid greatcoats fluttering around a slender body. No, there had been nothing but a very hot young woman with a pair of beautifully rounded breasts that in no way resembled anyone’s arse, even though the nipples had disappeared at some point and John had pushed himself deeper between them than was anatomically possible.

John walked up the steps to the front door and wondered whether it was finally time to bid Mark and Peter and Linda and all the rest of the residents of the Shelter a warm farewell and move on. Clearly Manchester just wasn’t far enough to shake the ghost of his former master off his back.

As soon as he stepped inside, though, he was greeted by a broadly smiling Mark. A smile like that could not be met with "Hi, thanks for everything you've done but I'll be going now" - not unless you were a heartless, soulless wanker, which John considered himself not to be.

If there was one thing he would miss about the Shelter, it was definitely its owner, Mark. There was something of an age gap between them, Mark being barely half his age, but even that hadn't stopped them from bonding over a pint. John didn't know the full story behind the Shelter, and it never even occurred to him to ask. Whatever it was that had brought Mark here and made him set up a safe house for runaways couldn't have been a warm and fuzzy story to hear.

"What's this, then?" John asked, taking off his jacket. "Did the abolition of slavery finally push through?"

"We have a surprise for you," Mark said, his smile turning into a secretive grin. "Follow me."

Feeling pleasantly curious, John did just that. He followed Mark through the house and into the kitchen, where they were joined by Peter and Freeman, a new resident at the Shelter. It was hardly the boy's real name, which was true of most of the ex-slaves in the house, but John found the unimaginative pun simply embarrassing. In fact, Peter had informed him that the poor boy had actually put considerable thought into choosing that particular name, and luckily, Peter had managed to talk him out of spelling it ‘Fr33man’.

"Downstairs." Mark nodded towards the cellar door. "Go on, mate. You'll love it. I guarantee. Consider it an early birthday present. Or a late one. Depending on when your birthday actually is." Mark chuckled, and Peter and Freeman followed in chorus.

John took a deep breath, then smiled. "All right, then. But if this is the underground practice we talked about, you might have taken the 'underground' part a bit too literally. I don't think even runaway slaves will take well to a doctor's office without windows."

He opened the door to the cellar and descended the steps slowly. The lights were on, but the wattage was far too low to illuminate anything more than tiny blotches right underneath the bulbs, leaving most of the space under the low ceiling well in the dark. The air smelled of mould and old, damp wood, and strangely enough, metal.

John reached the bottom of stairs before he noticed the shape in the middle of the space.

It was a man, that much was evident, despite the rather long and curly hair that hung over his face. John could tell that it was a man from the simple fact that he was naked. He was on his knees, and as John's eyes adopted to the darkness, he saw that the man's arms and legs had been tied together behind him, forcing him in that crouched position. Also, to top it all, there was a noose around his neck. The rope was tied to something in the dark ceiling above, making sure the man would have to remain somewhat upright on his knees. Should he fall to the floor, he would hang himself.

"I give you your master!" Mark said cheerfully, placing his hand on John’s shoulder. "Or your former master, of course. That sick bastard doesn't own so much a hair on your head any more."

"Sherlock." John knew there was no need to say it out loud, knew there was no mistake. But he had to say it. Had to hear it.

That stirred something beneath the mop of dark hair, and Sherlock turned his head towards John as much as the noose allowed. John could see his lips move to form a word, but no sound came out.

"How?" was all John could think of asking.

"Found him lurking about the place," Mark offered as he left John and circled to stand behind Sherlock. "Tried to sell us some cock-and-bull story about public health and safety or some such rubbish, but we knew he was up to no good, didn't we, Peter?" Mark turned to the others and received a chorus of nods. "So we snatched him and did a little digging on the computer. And what do we find?" He grabbed hold of Sherlock's hair and forced his head back to show his face. Sherlock let out a low groan, his eyes closing from the pain the movement evidently caused him. "We're being stalked by no other than Sherlock bloody Holmes, your old master!"

John stared. It might have seemed as if he was simply admiring his gift, the thoughtful present from his fellow ex-slaves. But in actual fact he was giving Sherlock a quick check-up. Blood under the nose, but only a small amount and the bone appeared to be intact. A trickle of blood running down from a minor cut on his left brow. Considerable amount of bruising to his torso and most likely at least one fractured rib. The colourful variation of the bruises told a plain tale of several punches on the face and upper body, followed by a number of hard kicks in the sides and stomach as he lay on the ground. There could well be internal bleeding, possible organ damage.

Sherlock needed a hospital, not just a doctor.

"I don't understand," John finally said, choosing to look away from Sherlock's abused figure and fix his eyes on Mark instead. "Why would...?"

"Why would he come here?” Mark finished for him. “Come to take his property back, of course. Why else?"

John shook his head slowly. "No, I doubt that very much. Not after the way I left."

There was also some swelling around Sherlock's mouth, possibly from the beating, but John suspected he had also been gagged at some point.

"Come on, John, this is your chance!" Mark encouraged him. "Now you can pay him back for all the shit he put you through. Fuck him the way he fucked you!”

“No,” John said, shaking his head, because that was all he could think of. No. Just no, no, no.

“Go on, Johnny,” Freeman cut in, nearly jumping in excitement. “With that mouth, I bet he gives good blowjobs."

"Yeah, thanks, I know," John muttered without thinking.

Mark raised his eyebrows and looked up at John. "You know?" Then his gaze fell back down to the bound man in front of him. "Oh, I see. So, the great detective likes the taste of cock, does he?"

Then, like it was the most obvious thing to do, Mark pushed two of his fingers into Sherlock's open mouth. The sound of Sherlock gagging and struggling for air made John sick.

"Well, well, well. Did you hear that, lads?" Mark added to Peter and Freeman, who seemed to have taken the back seat in all that was happening. It was Mark's house, and this was definitely Mark's show. "We've got here a bit of a bender! The bastard's probably enjoying this, aren't you?"

Mark shoved his fingers so deep down Sherlock's throat that John could see the panic spread over his face as he tried to fight for air without tightening the noose around his neck and suffocating himself.

"Stop it." The words escaped John's lips before he had time to consider if that really was the wisest response given the situation. "Please. Just stop."

Mark looked at him questioningly, but let his fingers slide slowly out of Sherlock's mouth. Wiping his hand on his trousers, he stepped away from his prisoner. John heard Sherlock gulp in air, then cough his lungs out, but John couldn't look straight at him. Instead, he kept his eyes locked with Mark's, trying to find there the man he had trusted with his life for the past month. The man who had taken him in, given him food and shelter, helped him get his ID chip removed. The man who had freed him from slavery and given him a new life. His friend.

His friend, who had just pretty much raped Sherlock’s mouth with his fingers.

"Sorry, mate," Mark said as he placed his hand on John's shoulder and squeezed it gently. John fought the urge to pat the still wet fingers away. "I should've realised. This is between you and him, I get it. But you're one of us now" - Mark indicated Peter and Freeman, who nodded in keen agreement - "so we just wanted to make him pay for what he did to you. Of course we didn't know..." Mark hesitated. "What _did_ he do to you, John?"

Now it was John's turn to hesitate. What was he to tell them? Should he tell them about Sherlock's experiments and John's role as his human guinea-pig? But despite the unfortunate side-effects of some of them, John really hadn't minded all that much. None of it had been just for Sherlock's amusement - well, not entirely - but instead all the little pains John had suffered had been vital in solving crimes, catching criminals.

All in all, his suffering had been for the greater good, and as an ex-soldier John could accept that better than most people.

Other than, had Sherlock done anything else to harm him? John really couldn't say that he had. Even the sexual interaction, which his brother had so perversely insisted upon, had been dealt with in a way that had ended up being actually quite enjoyable as far as John was concerned. Which was probably why he hadn’t even been too bothered by what Sherlock had attempted to do in the alley. John had thought about the incident often and thoroughly - mostly at night, in his bed, while masturbating. Something about the sudden change in Sherlock’s behaviour still felt a bit off, but John had never got the chance to see if Sherlock really would’ve followed up on his threats, because he had ran away before he could be buggered against the brick wall.

No. Because he had been _driven away_.

Yes. In the end, the only truly hurtful thing Sherlock had done, that John could think of, was telling him to go away. After what those men had done to him, Sherlock had thrown him out like he was rubbish. Damaged goods.

But before John could formulate this into words, he was startled to hear Sherlock's low and raspy voice fill the cellar.

"I made him do things to me... disgusting things... Tied him up… and used him... for anal pleasure."

John was shocked. He couldn't understand why Sherlock would say such a thing. Did the man have no sense of self-preservation? Admitting that he had forced John to have sex with him was bound to get him hanged. Literally.

"Well, no wonder you ran away, John," said Mark, looking almost as surprised at Sherlock's proclamation as John was. "I mean, a slave has his duties, but sticking it up your master's arse is really a bit too much to ask. Although..." He took a few steps to see behind Sherlock, his eyes fixed well below the waist. "Gay or straight, you must admit that is one fit piece of arse to fuck." Then he hastened to add, "I mean, if you happened to be that way inclined."

"He isn't," answered Sherlock on John's behalf. "He had... trouble... performing."

Before John could protest, Mark cut in. "So you threw him out? You sick bastard."

The back-hand slap itself wouldn't have been that severe, but it threw Sherlock off balance and left him hanging on the rope just long enough for the noose tighten around his neck and cut off his breathing.

John couldn't help himself. He dashed over to Sherlock and pulled him back up on his knees. He tried to push and pull the rope frantically through the knot to loosen the noose. He was relieved to hear Sherlock draw in breath in long, wheezing gulps.

"Could I have a moment, with him, in private?" John asked Mark. Then, remembering they weren't alone, he glanced pleadingly at the other two men. "If you don't mind?"

Mark turned to face him, his smile a bit more restrained now. "Of course, John. You take as long as you need. And we'll help out with the cleaning afterwards, okay? So don't you worry about a thing and just have fun, yeah? You've earned this, John. Remember that."

A string of manly roars and words of encouragement came from the others, and John had to concentrate on keeping his fists pressed against his sides and not go hurtling at them. He gave Mark a curt nod, which was accepted with a knowing grin, and after a comradely pat on John's back, Mark and the others retreated upstairs.

 

As soon as the door closed, John dropped down on his knees in front of Sherlock and tackled the rope around his neck.

"Can you get up? Even a little? Sherlock, can you hear me? I need you to lean on me and push yourself up as much as you can. I can't get this thing off you unless you help me. Sherlock?"

But Sherlock was barely conscious, let alone able to answer him. In fact, it was amazing he was even upright at all. It must have been sheer agony to stay in that position with a broken rib for as long as he had.

John pushed his arm under Sherlock's and tried to lift him up as much as he possibly could to allow the noose to slide over his head. He did manage to loosen it, but it wasn't enough. There was no way to get it off of Sherlock’s neck without cutting the rope. And of course he had left his knife collection in his other trousers.

So, he merely propped Sherlock up against himself to ease his breathing and the strain on his ribs. This left John pressed uncomfortably close to him, his former master. His bound, naked, helpless master.

Under the circumstances, John considered this as good a time as any to have a go at him.

"For God's sake, what the hell is wrong with you! Why did you have to come here?” John heard his anger echo from the bare walls and wondered if the others we listening outside the cellar door. He made an effort to keep his voice down when he continued, “I did what you wanted, didn't I? You told me to run, so I ran. I ran as far away as I could. And now you come here - for what? To take me back to the Houses? To your brother? Because we both know you're not here for me. You don’t want me back, unlike _they_ seem to think." John nodded towards the stairs. "So why are you here?"

Sherlock seemed to come to his senses, at least momentarily. He opened his eyes and looked right at John. A smile spread over his face.

“John.” Then all of a sudden the smile was gone and panic took its place. “Run. John, you must go. Now!”

“Yeah, that’s what you keep telling me.” The worst of John’s outrage was dying down, and mostly he just felt like a tit for thinking he would ever be free of Sherlock.

Then he took a better look at Sherlock’s naked chest, examining the bruises more closely. After all, he might be a tit, but he was also a doctor. Unlicensed, perhaps, but still a doctor. Doctor Tit, at your service.

"What did they do to you? Did they...?"

Sherlock shook his head minutely. "Transport. Just transport, John. Doesn't matter."

Suddenly it hit John. Yes. To Sherlock all bodily things, including sexual things, were of no significance. Meaning, what had happened between them the night before Mycroft's visit and the kiss they had shared in the alley - it had all been just that. Of no significance.

John couldn't believe that even after spending months in the presence of such a brilliant mind as Sherlock's, none of it had rubbed off on him. He was still the same bloody fool he'd always been.

"Well, your transport is now in a pretty bad shape. I have to go find something sharp to cut you free, but I can't go looking for it, unless I know you'll be able to hold yourself upright for five minutes. Sherlock?"

As no reply came, John edged his elbows against Sherlock's chest, cupping the man's battered face with his hands. "Sherlock, can you hear me? I have to go now."

"Go. Yes, John, you must go. Get out of here. Run."

"That's all you have to say to me? Again?" John shook his head in disbelief. Sherlock's breathing was getting laboured again, and John did his best to lift him up to a better position. "You could, maybe, try another tune for a change. Because that’s the last thing you told me, in that alley, remember?"

"Go, John... It’s a honey-trap..."

John shook his head and eased carefully away from Sherlock, trying to hold on to him for as long as he could. He didn’t like the way Sherlock’s body started swaying the moment he let go of him.

"Look, I don’t know about any honey, but I'm going upstairs to get a knife. Just try not to hang yourself while I'm gone, okay?"

“Yes... Gone… Good...”

 

///

 

John half-expected the others to be listening in on them right on the other side of the door, but the kitchen was surprisingly empty. However, there was a definite smell of food of some kind lingering in the air and a whole range of dirty pots and pans in the sink to indicate that a meal had, indeed, been prepared there. And just then he heard laughter coming through the closed door that led to the dining room. It sounded like the whole house was there, which was highly unusual for their scattered lot. Normally they all had their tea at different hours: despite their common background as former slaves, there was really not much else that unified the residents of the Shelter. They all had their separate lives, and they all acknowledged that their stay in the house was merely temporary, so there was little need to start building relationships with the other lodgers.

Still, in his current situation, John was only pleased that the household was gathered in one room, leaving the kitchen all to him. Mark's knives were in an appalling state, but after a quick rummage through the drawers, John managed to find one that looked like it might be sharp enough to cut through something heftier than fruit.

"John! Come join us!"

John nearly jumped in the air hearing Linda's cheery voice from behind him. She stood in the doorway, holding an empty bottle of wine and smiling like there wasn't a bound and naked man slowly suffocating to death in the cellar. John supposed that, as far as she was concerned, there probably wasn’t.

"I... I'll be right with you. I just need to take care of something."

Linda's eyes fixed on the knife. "Do you need help?"

John shook his head vigorously. "No, no. I'm fine. Thanks." He made for the cellar door, pressing the knife flat against his thigh, out of Linda's sight. "You just go ahead. I'll be right back."

"Okay. But you'd better hurry. Mark says he has cooked up something special for dessert!"

And hurry John did. He descended the stairs to the cellar as quickly as his legs would allow and glided to a halt by Sherlock's alarmingly unmoving body. He edged the knife between the rope and Sherlock's neck and started cutting him loose.

"Sherlock? I'm back. I'll get you free in no time. Well, as quickly as I can with this useless bloody thing. Sherlock?"

To John's relief, Sherlock lifted his head a little. He muttered something John couldn't quite make out.

"What's that?"

"Go, John... They're coming..."

"Who? Who's coming? Just stay still, it's the rope I'm cutting, not your neck, even though I'm starting to think it might be neither. I mean, how dull can a knife be?!"

"John," Sherlock started again, his pale eyes fixing on John's with terrifying intensity. "You must go… This place is a trap… the Houses... There’ll be a raid... tonight... Just go, John!"

John's breath caught in his chest, but his hands never stopped working on the rope. A raid? By whom? And what was that about the Houses? No, that was impossible. Mark had saved them, taken them in and helped them get their lives back. Of course he had nothing to do with the Houses. They certainly wouldn't be having a dinner party upstairs if there was any danger. Mark had even made dessert. Which he never did.

No, it was simply the oxygen deprivation speaking, Sherlock was hallucinating. Of course. That had to be it.

"No," John said out loud. "Whatever happens, if you think I'm leaving you again, you've got another thing coming. So just stay still, while I--"

It was precisely at the same moment as the rope snapped in two that John heard the loud noise from upstairs. It was a frightening mixture of screams and shouts and footsteps and furniture and/or people tumbling over.

“What the hell…?”

“They’re here, John. Run.”

“Shut up, Sherlock,” John said sharply, searching for a way out of the cellar.

The window. It was small but still big enough to climb through. If only it wasn’t so high up on the wall, right below the ceiling. There was no way he could get Sherlock up there, not in his condition. If John was to escape, he would have to do it alone.

John dragged some kind of a crate underneath the window and climbed on top of it. Standing on tiptoes, he just reached to push the window ajar.

When he returned to Sherlock, he had slipped back into unconsciousness.

“Sherlock!” John shook him. “You have to get up!”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed open and stared into John like seeing him for the first time. “John. Found you.”

"Yeah, you did. Now it's your turn to hide. Get up.”

John grabbed him by the arm and pulled him to his wobbly feet. Sherlock still had his hands tied behind his back, but there was no time to start cutting them loose, not now when the footsteps upstairs had died down, indicating that most of the people in the dining room were either dead or unconscious. And if the intruders knew how many people there were supposed to be there, they would soon come looking for the missing one.

“There,” John told Sherlock, pushing him forwards. “Behind the boiler.”

It had been during a frantic search for an electric radiator, which Mark had vaguely remembered dashing away somewhere in the cellar, that John had come across the tiny alcove. It must have been originally intended to fit the boiler, but as the house had been updated, it had evidently become too small. The alcove couldn’t be seen at all, thanks to the size of the new boiler, and would have gone completely unnoticed, had John not been freezing at the time and hence extremely anxious to go over every inch of the cellar in the hope of finding that radiator.

“Get in there, quick!” he whispered to Sherlock and shoved him in first.

The space was so small the two men could barely sit up, and even then, John had to climb partly on top of Sherlock.

“Look.”

John waited for a moment to make sure Sherlock really did take a good look at the knife he was holding up in front of his face, before pressing it firmly on Sherlock’s throat and his hand over Sherlock’s mouth.

“Don’t make a sound.”

John had barely made his threat, when he heard the door to the cellar being pushed open with a nasty creak. After a short silence, during which John scarcely dared to breathe, the creaking returned, this time from the stairs, as two people came down them. They walked quickly around the space, and their flashlights striped the walls as they secured the area. John was fairly sure those flashlights came attached to firearms.

“Clear,” a man’s voice said.

“Clear,” echoed another.

To John, it was clear these were no ordinary security guards, employed by the Houses. No, these men had military training and some serious backing, judging by their gear, of which John could only get a glimpse before he had to duck back into their hidey-hole behind the boiler.

“Rope’s been cut.”

“Blood on the floor.”

“Window.”

It sounded like the men of few words were moving towards where John had left the window ajar. Yes, that was definitely the sound of the crate being kicked across the floor.

“Must have gone through that. Let the guys outside know.”

“This is Bravo Three. We have two suspects outside, north-east corner. One injured, the other armed with a knife. Approach with extreme caution. Over.”

John was amazed. How could anyone think he would have got a half-unconscious man up to that window and out of it, was beyond him. Then again, the men didn’t know just how badly off Sherlock was.

He turned to look at Sherlock, who had sat perfectly still the whole time, and expected to find him nodding against the wall. He was awake, however, and looking intently at John. The alcove was so narrow, that their bodies were squashed together and John was practically sitting in Sherlock’s lap, with one hand over Sherlock’s mouth, the other holding the knife to his throat. Their faces were only inches away, and John couldn’t help breathing in Sherlock’s scent.

It was so familiar, so incredibly reassuring that it was amazing John hadn’t missed it more, nor had he any recollection of even noticing it before. Sherlock’s pale eyes were looking at him so intently that John couldn’t bear to face them any more. Bit by bit, he let his head slide closer to Sherlock’s, until he could press his nose into the dark, overgrown curls and immerse himself in the mixture of hair care products, tobacco, dust and whatever it was that made Sherlock’s skin smell the way it did. It was intoxicating. John felt his hand slip from Sherlock’s mouth and push behind his ear instead, cupping his face and tilting it so that John could bury his nose deeper into that hair, that scent.

_Oh, god. Not now. Please, no._

John was disgusted with himself. He was getting hard, and he knew it was wrong, yet there was nothing he could do to stop himself. Sherlock had been hurt and abused, he was weak and vulnerable, and most importantly, John was still threatening him with a knife. Not to mention that there were armed soldiers roaming through the house in search of them. This was hardly the time to start acting out fantasies, let alone adding sexual assault to his already sizable charge sheet. He would have to get them out of here, make sure Sherlock was safe and sound, and then do as he had been told too many times already: run as far and fast as he possibly could.

And then he felt it. Sherlock’s lips brushing against the side of his neck. It wasn’t a kiss, that much John was certain of. It might not even have been deliberate. It was just an open mouth accidentally brushing against John who had pushed himself much too far into Sherlock’s personal space, all because he wanted to smell the hair of the man, who used to own him. Which was just wrong, on so many levels.

But even though John’s mind could understand all of that, his body most definitely didn’t care. His cock twitched almost angrily and pushed against his trousers, and considering the fact that he was pretty much straddling Sherlock and his groin was squeezed right against Sherlock’s stomach, there was no way his arousal could go unnoticed.

Sherlock had said such horrible things to him in that alley, threatened to hurt him, degrade him. And after those four bastards had attacked them, he had driven John away like he was something so disgusting he couldn’t even be looked at.

And here he now was, completely at John’s mercy, and all John wanted to do was to kiss him.

“John…” Sherlock’s breath burned against his skin and made him whimper.

“No. No.” John shook his head, pulling back from Sherlock and his intoxicating scent. “I’m not… No.”

“John.”

That was it. Just one word. And yet John felt it all the way down to his groin.

Then he happened to glance at the knife, which was now trembling a little in his hand, and was shocked to find blood on it. Evidently, while getting aroused by Sherlock’s hair care products, John had accidentally made a small cut on his throat.

That must have been what Sherlock had been trying to say to him, and he could think about was his damn cock. Had there been more room, John would’ve kicked himself.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” he started, showing Sherlock the bloodied knife. But Sherlock just looked at him with a strange burning in his eyes.

“I think… I think we can get up now.”

John listened for a moment, hearing nothing from upstairs. As quickly yet quietly as he could, he eased himself out of the alcove, then turned to help Sherlock out after him. Sherlock gave him an odd look, but said nothing.

“Those guys weren’t from the Houses,” John started and waited for Sherlock to open his eyes again. He was leaning heavily against the wall, his head thrown back and his face twisted from the strain of standing. “They were military, Sherlock. Why would the Government send soldiers after a bunch of runaway slaves? It’s none of their business, is it?”

Everybody knew the Houses existed outside government control, not strictly legal but so far not exactly illegal, either. It had been an uneasy balance ever since the first slave contracts were made public, and one which nobody knew how to meddle with without having to touch such delicate subjects as a person’s right to decide what to do with his or her own life, not to mention a company’s right to do business. As long as people signed their contracts with the auction houses of their own free will, the Government had no other choice but to stand back and watch. Until now, apparently.

Then the obvious explanation occurred to John.

“Were they here because of you?” He turned Sherlock’s head towards him and waited for him to focus. “You follow me here to collect your property but get caught by Mark and the others, so the Government sends in troops to rescue you?” When Sherlock didn’t answer, John scoffed. “Jesus. I never knew England thought so highly of you.”

“Not England, just my brother.”

“Your brother?” John wanted to laugh, but managed only a slightly hysterical chuckle. “What the hell does Mycroft have to do with the Government? Don’t tell me he’s an MP or something...” John recalled his instant dislike of his master’s brother. Should have known he was a politician.

“Don’t be absurd, John,” Sherlock said, sounding like his old self again. “Of course Mycroft’s not an MP. He has actual influence.”

Then Sherlock started coughing, unable to breathe. John held him by the waist as he emptied his lungs, and bit back all the questions he wanted to ask.

“I didn’t come here to take you back,” Sherlock finally said, when the worst of the fit had passed. “I came to warn you.”

John stared at him. “Warn me about what?”

Sherlock took a deep breath, which resulted in some more coughing, then started speaking too fast for someone who had just been nearly hanged. The things he was saying, though, fit his oxygen-deprived state quite well.

“The auction houses are a substantial source of income for this country,” Sherlock began tiredly, keeping his eyes closed. “The Government cares about tax revenue - especially about losing any - and my brother, in turn, cares about the Government. Almost as much as about himself. Which is pretty much the same thing.”

“But none of us have anything to do with the Houses any more, we’ve all run off. Why would your brother send his troops _here_?”

“I’m sorry to say this, John, but you never left.”

John’s mind was working hard, trying to put the pieces together and finding that none of them fit properly.

One thing was clear, however. He would have take Sherlock’s initial advice and get the hell out of here. But he wouldn’t run away with nothing more than the shirt of his back, not again. This time he would pack first.

“Come on. Up we go.”

They made it up the stairs as best they could, with Sherlock still wobbly on his feet. The fact that he still had his hands tied behind his back wasn’t exactly helping, but John thought it best not to untie him, not until this thing was all cleared up.

John left Sherlock standing by the cellar door and walked slowly forwards to have a look around the quiet house.

The kitchen was empty and untouched, but as he walked into the dining room, there was no doubt that a sudden and devastating fight had taken place there. The half-emptied plates were still on the table, but most of the chairs had been knocked over and one bottle of red wine had been spilled across the carpet. On closer look, John realised not all of the stains were wine.

He returned to the kitchen and opened the fridge. As John took out a can of juice, his eyes locked on the pudding Mark had prepared for them. John had never seen Mark make anything past a sandwich, yet there it was. His surprise dessert.

 

///

 

John wasn’t sure how he managed to drag Sherlock’s barely conscious, limp body up two flights of stairs and into his room on the first floor, but it must have happened, because there he now was, lying on his side on John’s bed.

Next to the bed on the floor waited the bag that held everything he owned. It wasn’t much, but it was better than having to go through rubbish bins for food and clothing, like he had after running away from Sherlock. John even had some money saved, which he had earned doctoring other runaways and outcasts. At the very least, it would buy him a train ticket; hiding in the lavatory most of the way from London to Manchester had been absolutely disgusting.

John went to wet a cloth in the bathroom across the hall, then began wiping the blood off Sherlock’s nose and mouth, while giving him a quick once-over. It appeared he didn’t have broken ribs, after all, contrary to what John had feared, only bruising all over his body, especially in his mid-section and his neck. The sight of the red burn mark left by the noose was enough to turn John’s stomach, but on top of it there was also the thin cut left by the knife John had held to his throat. Even though this was far from serious, to John’s mind it was the worst of the marks tainting the milk-white perfection of Sherlock’s long neck.

The knife rested on a chair by the bed, but to be honest, John doubted whether he would be able to hurt Sherlock, even if it was the only way of ensuring his freedom. Sherlock looked so peaceful as he lay there on John’s shabby bedspread, his mouth half-open against John’s pillow. His torn shirt had fallen off the shoulders, revealing the lean but muscular chest and arms, and his insane hair was unintentionally ruffled - contrary to what John had grown accustomed to - and hanging partly over his those gorgeous cheekbones of his.

No, John definitely wouldn’t be able to hurt Sherlock, even if his own life depended on it. And it very well might.

He could just imagine how it would look to be found like this: a runaway slave with his beaten and abused master lying tied up and half-naked in his bed. If Sherlock so wished, John would be sentenced on the spot, no proof needed and no further questions asked. And after a violation as grave as that, John wouldn’t face just a stretch in the correctional unit. No, his contract would be changed from five years to a life in slavery, without even a trial to slow him down. There was a saying about lifers: a life in slavery is tough but short. It wasn’t much of a saying, but John felt that it captured the point.

“Oh god, I’m screwed,” he sighed and slumped onto the foot of the bed.

“John...” said a raspy voice.

John turned to find Sherlock blinking his eyes slowly, trying to get used to seeing again. Then he started to cough, unable to breathe as his lungs attempted to rid themselves of all the excess fluid at once. John hurried to help him sit up, and once the coughing had died down, he brought the carton of juice to his lips, trying to get him to drink.

“Here. You’re dehydrated. It’ll help.”

Sherlock gulped the juice down, spilling a fair amount onto his bare chest and John’s clothes in the process. When he finally appeared to have had enough, John let go of him and he fell straight back down on the bed.

“I’m sorry, John,” he said, his face half-buried in the pillow. “I chose my slave poorly.”

Of all the things he could have said to John, that was surprisingly hurtful.

“What are you on about?”

Sherlock turned his head and looked right at John. “I’m sorry,” he just repeated.

All John could think about was that his eyes were exactly the colour of the sea around a Greek island he remembered once visiting with a girlfriend. When he was still a free man. It seemed like that life - his life - belonged to someone else. For a while, his life had belonged to this man with the insanely coloured eyes, and part of him wished it still did. But apparently his feelings weren’t shared.

“Yeah, you chose the wrong slave, all right,” John finally said, swallowing hard. Then the questions just burst out of him in no particular order. “But if I was such a bad choice in the first place, then why the hell did you have to follow me here?! And what happened to all the others? Where did they take them? What did you mean by saying that we never left the Houses?”

Sherlock took a moment before answering. When he began to speak, John could hear none of the complacency in his voice that he had learnt to expect from the great detective whenever he was forced to explain something to those to whom everything wasn’t quite as obvious.

“This house - your ‘Shelter’ - is nothing but a trap for runaway slaves.” There was actually something close to sorrow glistening in Sherlock’s eyes. He blinked it quickly away. “A syndicate of the biggest auction houses use it and others like it to capture runaways, who are then sold illegally overseas, mostly to prostitution or hard labour, although I hear there’s also a growing domestic demand, especially for sex slaves. You, due to your profession as well as your age, would have most likely ended up working for terrorists, tending to unsuccessful suicide bombers.”

Sherlock paused, looking exhausted, and closed his eyes. John missed their colour instantly.

“I don’t understand. Why would they bother to trick us like that… I mean, a couple of runaways here and there only adds up to--”

“To thousands each year,” Sherlock filled in. “Yes. The Houses profit handsomely from every slave they ‘lose’, and every slave sold under the counter digs a sizeable hole in the Treasury. And of course it doesn’t end there. The same network is also involved in selling people who haven’t actually signed a contract to begin with. You’d be amazed at how many signatures have been gained under stress or with the help of narcotics.”

“No, no…” John said, shaking his head. It just didn’t add up, none of it. The Shelter was his home. Mark had set it up because he wanted to help others like him. Of course he didn’t have anything to do with the auction houses. He couldn’t have.

“This was supposed to be the house clearing day,” said Sherlock’s voice. John didn’t want to listen to him any more, but couldn’t make himself leave the room. “Your friend Mark had buyers lined up for every one of you, so it was time to close shop in Manchester and open up the ‘Shelter’ somewhere else. Tonight’s dinner would have ended with a dessert laden with sedative, and you would have all woken up in a different land, under very different circumstances.”

“No,” John said, shaking his head. “You’re lying. Why are you lying?”

“John. I don’t care if you believe me, but you have to go. My brother may be an ass, but he doesn’t tend to hire incompetents. Those soldiers will come back. They already know I’m here.” He glanced at John’s bag on the floor. “Just take your things and go. Leave me here, they will find me. Here as surely as they would’ve in the cellar.”

“Will you stop telling me to go away! I’ll go when I’m good and ready, and I’m not--”

That’s when it hit him. It was suddenly all so clear to him that John couldn’t understand how he hadn’t seen it before. Honestly, he was such a tit!

“ _You chose poorly_ ,” John repeated Sherlock’s earlier statement. “That’s it, isn’t it? _You meant to buy yourself a runaway_. You wanted me to escape, so I could be tracked. Tracked right here.”

It just made so much sense and let so many pieces fall into place, that it was almost overwhelming. He, John, had led those troops here. It was his fault that everyone in the Shelter had been captured.

He remembered the blood on the dining room floor and felt sick.

“In order to follow the trail of runaways, bait was needed,” Sherlock said, sounding uncomfortable. “My brother never enjoys getting his hands dirty, so with a friendly reminder of a debt I owed him - a minor case of identity theft - he coerced me to take on the role of the ruthless master. I was to choose a slave likely, not only to escape, but also to avoid capture long enough to get in touch with the organisation. Evidently I got the last part correct, but the first…”

“I wouldn’t run.” Now John was laughing. He wasn’t the least bit amused, but there really was nothing else he could do but laugh. “You chose the wrong slave, because I wouldn’t run away from you!”

“I did my best, John,” Sherlock said, looking at him quite earnestly, clearly puzzled by John’s hysterical reaction to this revelation. “I made you jump through every hoop I could think of, performing experiments on you that would have driven away just about every other rational being on earth. But not you.” Sherlock sighed. “I simply couldn’t get rid of you.”

“Not until those thugs attacked us.” John felt even more of an idiot. “You saw an opportunity and used it to drive me away.” He left out the part about spending the last weeks feeling like shit, thinking that Sherlock had found him unclean, tainted.

John stood up and walked across the room. He needed some distance, from everything, especially Sherlock. He stopped in front of the small mirror, that he had hung on the wall, but couldn’t bring himself to look into it. Somehow he knew that if he saw himself, he’d see the truth in his own eyes, and he wasn’t sure if could handle it just yet.

“It was all an act,” he said, more to himself than Sherlock. “I did everything you asked, went along with the craziest experiments, because I thought I was helping, solving crimes. Because you…” John’s voice cracked. He turned his back to the mirror. “But it was all just for show.”

“You did help, John,” Sherlock said quietly. “I… I found your presence very beneficial. Exceedingly so, in fact. To my work, and to…” Sherlock cleared his throat, even though it didn’t sound like he really needed to. “Over time, I grew reluctant to follow the plan.”

“So that’s why Mycroft suddenly popped by, demanding that you… do things to me?” he asked. One look at Sherlock’s face gave him the answer. “Right. Of course. I wasn’t supposed to be with you for that long, was I? I overstayed my welcome. You were meant to just treat me like shit so that I’d do a runner. But you couldn’t do it, could you? Couldn’t even rape me properly!”

“John, I would never…” Sherlock closed his eyes again, as apparently looking at John was proving too much for him. “I was forced to take you to bed, despite my promise never to subject you to any sexual advances. And for that, I apologise.”

Again John found himself laughing. “You _apologise_? For god’s sake, that was… No. This is insane. You… No.”

John couldn’t breathe. He walked over to the window to push it open, to get some air into the tiny room with walls that kept coming closer and closer - and that’s when he saw it.

A car. In the driveway.

John froze.

“It’s Mark. That’s his car. He must’ve been out when the house was raided.”

His first instinct was to run downstairs and find Mark, tell him what had happened. To be reassured that Sherlock had got it wrong.

But Sherlock was never wrong.

“John, he sold you. He sold everyone. Not just here, but in other towns, over and over again.”

Sherlock sounded very convincing. And John wanted to be convinced. But Mark was his friend, the one who had taken him in, the one who had helped him put himself back together and start building a new life for himself. Yet, Mark was also the one who had hurt Sherlock. The one who had captured Sherlock and given him to John as a gift, so that he could take revenge on his former master...

“How did he know?” John suddenly asked out loud. “He said he found you on the internet, but how did he know you were my master? I never even told him my last name, let alone yours. So how could he possibly know?”

Sherlock struggled to prop himself up against wall. His eyes burned colder than ever before. “John, you must believe me. You’ve been here longer than most, right? And you’ve seen that some slaves move on quicker than others?”

John had no choice but to nod. There had been only one other runaway in the Shelter when he arrived, a good-looking girl whose name he hadn’t even got to learn before Mark had announced that he had managed to arrange her tickets to South America. She had been gone the next day.

“Precisely. Some slaves are easy to be sold on, some not so much. Some are more valuable and hence take longer to sell than others. A doctor, say.”

Most of what Sherlock said made sense, in a way. John’s former profession had never been an advantage in domestic slave markets, because he had long since been stripped of his right to practise medicine, but to be sold illegally overseas, where his records were not known and not much cared about...

Then John heard it. The sound of footsteps on the stairs. He recognised the creak of the second step from down.

John moved silently to the door, slid into the corner right behind it and stood there holding his breath. Waiting. Listening.

Then the footsteps sounded right outside in the hallway, stopped for the longest second in John’s life, then went past his door. Silence. A minute went by. Two minutes. Three. John couldn’t stop counting. He got to four minutes and twenty-six seconds before he heard footsteps again, then the creak of the step, and finally a loud bang as the front door was slammed shut.

John abandoned his post and hurried back to the window. Sure enough, there was Mark, returning to his car, dragging a large suitcase behind him. He didn’t seem in any way shook-up as he left his empty house that had blood in the dining room carpet.

“He was let go on purpose,” said Sherlock’s calm voice behind him. “To lead my brother and his cronies to the next rung on the ladder.”

With a lump of something nasty in his throat, John watched the car speed off down the road. The front yard looked oddly empty without it. It had started to rain, he noticed, and it must’ve been in the last five minutes, judging by the lighter patch on the ground where the car had stood. John didn’t think he would have noticed something like that before he had met Sherlock.

“And the others?” he asked, still staring through the window. “The people who lived here. Where were they taken?”

“They’re still slaves. I expect they will be returned to their rightful owners.”

John turned to face him.

“So, if I had been caught, they would’ve given me back to you?” He couldn’t keep the hurt from sounding in his voice. “But you came here to ensure that I stayed on the run, as far away from you as possible?”

“No, John, I’m not your owner.” Sherlock exhaled sharply, as if it pained him to say those words. “Mycroft still holds your contract. He finds keeping slaves distasteful, but most likely he would’ve kept you on out of pure spite. I…” His face hardened. “I didn’t think I could bear it.”

John considered this for while. Sherlock had come all this way to tip him off about the upcoming raid. To allow him the chance to escape, once again. To save him from ending up warming his brother’s bed. Almost as if he cared.

“And if I leave now, ” John said, moving slowly towards the bed, “will they be able to follow me?”

A lock of Sherlock’s hair fell over his eyes as he shook his head. “The isotope in your blood has almost dissolved by now. It was only meant to last till you were sold and shipped off somewhere. In a matter of days, it’ll be completely gone.”

John had a feeling there was something in Sherlock’s story that bothered him, but for the time being, it seemed he was able to focus on one thing and one thing only.

“So… this will be the last time I see you,” he started. He was standing by the bed now, looking down at Sherlock, who refused to meet his eyes. “If I run away now, that’s… That’s it, then?”

John couldn’t help himself. He had to reach out and push the lock of hair from Sherlock’s face. When Sherlock flinched at his touch, John felt it in the pit of his stomach.

“Yes, you’re free to carry on with your life,” Sherlock said, sounding oddly cold all of a sudden. “Though, maybe it’s best not to contact the lactose intolerant woman any time soon. But I’m sure you’ll meet other eligible young ladies.”

It took John a moment to decipher what Sherlock had just said. He was about to start in on him about stalking people, when he saw Sherlock looking pointedly at the litter bin under his table. And sure enough, right on top of it was the crumbled receipt from the coffee shop. Two soya milk lattes plus VAT, dated nearly a week ago.

“Nothing happened,” John found himself saying. It sounded much more defensive than he had intended. “She asked me out for coffee. I was just trying to act normal, so I had a coffee with her.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, merely turned his head away from John. The movement left his neck exposed, and John found himself staring at Sherlock’s collar bone. It was a beautiful collar bone. He had often thought that. He remembered wanting to put his lips to it that night they had been intimate, but at the time he had suspected Sherlock wouldn’t have allowed it.

Now there would be nothing stopping him. If this was to be the last time he ever saw Sherlock, John would make the most of it. To hell with the woman in the coffee shop, whatever her name was. Of course John had never really been interested in her. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember if she even had a collar bone. Well, she probably did, but it couldn’t possibly be as beautiful as this one.

Ignoring Sherlock’s surprised voice - “John?” - he placed his knees on the edge of the bed and leaned in closer. The delicate bone shone through the pale skin, and he ran his fingers slowly along its line. Once, twice. Sherlock let out a gasp that resonated all the way down to John’s abdomen.

“You kissed me,” he said, as he kept stroking that fragile, almost feminine part of Sherlock’s body. “In that alley. You kissed me. Tell me that was part of the plan as well.”

“No.” Sherlock nearly whimpered when John’s fingers strayed to his long neck. “No plan. Human weakness.”

“Yours or mine?” John let his hand slide down on Sherlock’s body.

“I don’t--”

John’s hand had reached Sherlock’s groin and stopped there. He couldn’t believe his nerve as he cupped Sherlock’s balls and pressed his wrist against the beginnings of Sherlock’s erection. John had never done anything like this, had never even dreamed of taking such liberties, yet here he was, kneeling by his tied-up former master, rubbing his master’s genitals with the palm of his hand.

It felt good, so incredibly good. To have Sherlock lying there so helpless, so vulnerable. To have that much power.

It was almost too much for John to take in.

And just like that, he pressed his mouth onto Sherlock’s, whose lips opened almost immediately for him. Encouraged by the eager reception, John deepened the kiss, let his tongue taste and explore the inside of Sherlock’s mouth, and was met with an almost desperate hunger as Sherlock responded to his touch.

The next thing he knew, he was down on his side on the bed, pressing the length of his body against Sherlock’s and lining up their clothed erections, grinding them agonisingly against each other. It was amazing to feel Sherlock’s hardness, to realise that he wanted this almost as much as John did. Sherlock had cared enough about him not to let him be shipped off abroad: he had followed John here to allow him the chance to escape, to break free of his life as a slave...

Then a thought occurred to him. And a thought while painfully aroused is a dangerous thing.

He pulled back a little, waited for Sherlock to open his eyes and asked, “What did you mean by ‘isotope’?”

“Wha-?”

“You said something about an isotope in my blood. How exactly did it get there?”

Sherlock scoffed impatiently. “Since identity chips can be removed, it was agreed that I inject the slave - you - with an isotope that is sufficiently radioactive to be detected by sensors installed in the sewage system - assuming, of course, that you use toilets to urinate, which, happily, you did.  Now, can we, please, carry on?”

Sherlock tried to push his hips forward, but John slid back, right onto the edge of the bed, to leave a narrow space between them.

“Are you saying you... you made my piss radioactive? You _poisoned_ me?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It is a perfectly harmless substance. I didn’t lose a single mouse in the test trials.” Then his brow furrowed. “Of course, the lifespan of a lab mouse doesn’t rule out any long term effects…”

“So you tagged me and gave me cancer, and then threw me out on my arse. Cheers for that.”

“Can’t say for certain whether it’ll be cancer. Could be heart or liver failure, or neurological--”

John closed his lips around Sherlock’s mouth. There were things he didn’t need to know, at least not just yet.

He pulled Sherlock in for another kiss, this time a much messier one. It felt so incredible that he could do this, touch Sherlock like this, taste him... How many times had he lain in this same bed and thought about what it had been like to kiss Sherlock, relived those short moments again and again, tried out various scenarios for how it might have continued if they hadn’t been interrupted by those four rapist bastards...

John shook the memory of what had followed from his mind and reached down to open  Sherlock’s trousers. He pushed them down along with his boxers and gasped at the heat radiating from Sherlock’s bare groin. He wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s erection and began stroking it languidly, taking his time to enjoy the feeling of the hot, hard organ in his grasp. It was so unbelievably hot, better than anything he could have ever dreamt. He was just about to pick up the pace, when a breathless, husky voice stopped him. It sounded so utterly _horny_ it was barely recognisable.

“Have me, John.”

And Sherlock tried to turn around to his other side, pushing his plump arse out towards John.

Oh, dear god, it looked inviting. But...

“No.”

John grabbed him and forced him back to face him. Sherlock tried to fight back, but with his hands tied, he didn’t stand a chance. John held him firmly in his grip with one hand, while opening his own trousers with the other. As soon as he had his cock out, he pressed it against Sherlock’s and wrapped his hand around both of them.

“Like this,” he told Sherlock. “I want you like this.”

A low moan escaped Sherlock’s lips as John began to move his hand up and down both their lengths, and he captured that gorgeous sound with his mouth, pulling Sherlock into a deep, wet kiss.

The feel of Sherlock’s prick against his own was just amazing. It was so hot and weird and impossibly erotic that John was teetering on the edge of orgasm after only a few strokes, and hearing Sherlock make the most obscene noises wasn’t exactly helping.

John had never done anything like this before. His only sexual encounters with other men had been with his masters, and none of them had ever allowed this much intimacy - John had merely been used, then discarded. Before Sherlock, no man had ever really touched him, aroused him, pleasured him. And now he had the cock of this beautiful man pressed against his own, his hand sliding over both of them, so deliciously slippery with pre-come.

“Please, John,” Sherlock panted into his hair. “Have me. One last time.”

The thought of fucking Sherlock was insanely tempting, so much so that John had to loosen his grip on his own penis to keep himself from climaxing. Still he hesitated.

“I don’t… I don’t have anything. It’ll hurt.”

Sherlock gave him a look that made it clear how little he cared about so minor details. “You have a tube of hand cream on the table. Use that. Use whatever you like if you’ll just fuck me.”

At that instant, the decision was made and John found himself reaching for the hand cream.

As Sherlock wriggled onto his stomach, John emptied the tube of cream on his hands, intending to prepare Sherlock for him. But when he turned to take his place behind him, the sight took his breath away.

Sherlock was lying on his stomach, with his legs folded underneath him, his forehead pressed against the pillow and his perfectly rounded arse raised up - for John. The fact that he still had his hands tied behind his back made it look almost like an offering: Sherlock was his, to be used as he pleased.

“Jesus Christ… Sherlock…”

Without much thought, John applied the cream to his shaft, smearing some of it hastily between Sherlock’s buttocks as well, before guiding the tip of his cock to Sherlock’s pucker. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he should wait and stretch Sherlock open first, he knew entering him like this would cause him discomfort, even pain. But the sight in front of him was just too much for him to hold back for a second longer.

With one hard push he forced his swollen cock inside Sherlock.

It took John a moment to realise not all the noise that resulted came from him.

“Sherlock? Oh, god… Are you okay? Do you want me to--”

“No!” Sherlock was breathing very fast, his head buried in the bedspread. “No. Don’t stop. I want… I want you to fuck me. Hard, John. I want to be able to feel you even after you’re gone.”

John really didn’t need to be asked, but the fact that Sherlock was practically begging to be fucked definitely stirred something in his belly. Wasting no time, he placed his hands on Sherlock’s hips, took one look at his prick, half-buried in that gorgeous arse, and then rammed it all the way in. Sherlock let out another grunt, but it was quieter than before: John could see he had a mouthful of bedspread to muffle his cries.

When he was completely embedded in Sherlock, John had to take a moment to calm himself down. It just felt too good, it _looked_ too good. He still had most of his clothes on, whereas Sherlock was practically naked, with his trousers pulled down below his buttocks and his shirt tangled around his arms behind his back. John briefly considered taking off his own shirt, but wearing it gave him a sense of power he wasn’t ready to give up just yet. He ran the palm of his hand slowly down Sherlock’s bare back. Revelling in the sensation of having him pinned down under him, smoothing the soft skin he could so easily break.

This was John’s moment. Sherlock was his and his alone.

He wanted to pound into Sherlock, shag him so hard neither of them would ever be able to forget it. He wanted to make Sherlock scream, to cry out his name, to feel so thoroughly fucked that he would be coming just from thinking about it for days afterwards.

Yet John couldn’t bear the thought of actually hurting him. So he tried to focus on breathing and not moving his hips until Sherlock was ready for it.

“All right?” John asked when the burning in his cock was getting unbearable. He would either have to start moving or he might well come just from watching Sherlock’s body spread out underneath him.

“Yes. _God_ , yes. Fuck me. Please.”

There was no way John could resist an invitation like that. Not when Sherlock was asking so nicely.

John began to move his hips carefully at first, keeping his thrusts slow but deep, burying himself inside Sherlock all the way down to the hilt. But after only a few pushes, he picked up his pace, his thrusts growing harder and harder, until he was slamming into Sherlock with such force that the bed banged against the wall and the old windows rattled like a storm had hit them.

John was panting, moaning and groaning like a hungry wolf, but Sherlock made absolutely no noise at all.

“Sherlock?” John had to ask, keeping his cock buried deep inside Sherlock, unmoving.

“Would you… Would you touch me?”

John felt like shit. It hadn’t even occurred to him that Sherlock might need something more to stimulate him than John’s cock up his arse. With his hands tied, Sherlock was at John’s mercy, who, in turn, had been too wrapped up in his own pleasure, too drunk with this strange sense of power, to pay any attention to Sherlock’s needs.

“I’m sorry, I should’ve…”

“Let me,” Sherlock breathed, his voice almost pained. “Let me come...”

John leaned down, propped himself on one arm and reached around Sherlock with the other. When his hand found Sherlock’s prick, the sound Sherlock made could only be described as a wail.

“Good god…” John breathed. He had never known it was even possible to get so hard. The organ in his hand was practically quivering, like the skin might just split open from the pressure inside. It must have been sheer agony for Sherlock not to be able to touch himself.

“I’m so sorry,” John repeated, but clearly apologies were unnecessary.

“Fuck me…” came Sherlock’s throaty voice. “Harder, John…”

Sherlock sounded so desperate, John had no choice but to obey. He started moving again, this time slamming his hips against Sherlock’s arse so hard he knew there would be damage. But there would be time to heal the wounds later. Now there was only Sherlock, his beautiful master, who was his, all his. He held his hand still around Sherlock’s prick, not moving it but just squeezing it, and let it jerk only from the force of his thrusts, which were nothing short of brutal now.

“John…!” came Sherlock’s warning right before his cock began pulsing John’s hand.

The feeling of Sherlock’s body contracting around his cock was too much. Much too much. John had been teetering on the edge for too long, and Sherlock’s orgasm was quickly followed by his own. John heard himself let out a long, low growl as the room collapsed around him.

When he could breathe again, John found his face buried in the curve of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock’s skin smelled of sweat and blood and a number things John didn’t recognise but was willing to spend the rest of his life figuring out. He started to push himself up, worried that he might break one of Sherlock’s arms with his weight.

“Sherlock, I--”

It wasn’t much, but it was all John had time to say before the door was kicked in and the room was suddenly filled with strange men and loud voices.

The familiar colours of the uniforms they wore were confirmation enough that these were the same soldiers who visited the house earlier and had now returned to take John back where he belonged.

"Drop the knife, slave!"

It was only then that John realised he really was holding the knife in his hand. He hadn’t even remembered where he had set it down, but the moment the intruders had burst in through the door, his first reaction had been to reach for his weapon, as pathetic as it was.

Distantly John realised that he was still inside Sherlock when he rolled them onto their sides and placed the knife against Sherlock’s throat. The dried up smudge of Sherlock’s blood had darkened the edge. Under any other circumstances, John might have appreciated the beautiful contrast it made with Sherlock’s pale skin.

"Step away from him!"

"Down on your knees!"

The orders came almost simultaneously. John followed none of them. Instead, he wrapped his free arm around Sherlock’s chest and pulled him even closer to him.

“As this probably the last time I see you, I need to say something.”

"John..."

There was more shouting around them, now more demanding, but John ignored it. He knew the stun gun would hit him the moment he let go of Sherlock, but not before he had had a chance to say his piece.

John drew a deep breath, leaning in closer until his lips brushed against Sherlock’s ear.

"Just so you know, I would've done anything you asked,” he whispered. “Anything. All the crazy experiments, all the running after criminals and getting nearly killed. And yes, you could've had me anywhere and any which way you wanted. I would've sucked your cock morning, noon and night if you'd asked me. I was even ready to put up with the belting, if that's what it took to stay with you. Nothing you could’ve done would’ve been enough to make me want to run away from you. Nothing.”

John kept his face buried in Sherlock’s hair for just a little bit longer, to breathe in his scent for the very last time.

“If you wanted me to run away, you never should’ve let me fall in love with you.”

Then he pulled back slowly, his penis slipping out of Sherlock and the knife dropping to the floor beside the bed. He felt his back hit the wall behind him and he raised his hands in surrender.

Sherlock in front of him had rolled onto his back and turned to face him, his eyes wide and his mouth open. John could see the words form on his lips, but he couldn’t hear anything, apart from the buzzing in his ears as the pain of the stun gun hit him.


	4. The Free Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! The last chapter! Oh, I'm going to miss these guys so much, you have no idea *sniffle*
> 
> No warnings, just Mycroft being upset and hence petty, John being a saint and Sherlock doing something incredibly stupid. Oh, and there's sex, of course :)

John woke up without knowing how long he had slept. It could have been mere minutes just as well as days, although he would have put his money on the former rather than the latter, based on the strategies employed by the Correctional Unit.

The light in his cell was on, just as it always was, making sure he was in a state of permanent sleep-deprivation, despite the sleep granted to him by the sedatives in his food, which was administered at irregular intervals. The constant light combined with the sporadic feeding schedule made certain he had no sense of time. It seemed that during this last sedated sleep someone had once again come in to give him a shave, leaving him with absolutely nothing to go by for determining the length of his visit to the Unit.

To make matters worse, the little sleep that he did get, was filled with the most vivid and disturbing dreams imaginable. They weren't nightmares, not even sex dreams, which would have been painful enough. No, they were worse.

Every night (or day) he had the same dream, where he would wake up in his cell when the door burst open, and yes, there would be Sherlock, come to rescue John from the Unit. Sherlock would tell him that he had secretly been in love with John from the moment they had met, possibly even the first time he lay his eyes on John in the auction house’s showroom, and could not find a way live without John in his life. Then he would proceed to pick John up in his arms and carry him out of the cell and back to Baker Street.

Yes, any nightmare would have been better than that.

John had no idea whether his "correctional procedure" would last until he was considered fit to re-enter into service - or whether it would prove permanent. Somehow, he feared the latter, given what he was accused of doing: first running away from his master and leaving him in a life-threatening situation, then kidnapping his master, raping and torturing him until finally attempting to murder him with a kitchen knife.

After he had first come to - be it days or weeks ago - he had been taken into a small room at the end of the corridor, seated by a table and shown pictures. Pictures of dark, purple bruises on a person’s skin. You couldn’t see his face, but John would have recognised Sherlock’s neck anywhere. Then there had been more pictures of more bruises, thrown all over the table: chest, arms, wrists. Finally had come the pictures John had known to fear.

The damage to Sherlock’s anus appeared to have been worse than he feared. John felt sick. He wanted to tell the man sitting across the table that he hadn’t meant to hurt Sherlock, that it had been an accident, that Sherlock had wanted it, even begged for it. But none of it sounded right, so he said nothing.

After seeing those photos he had cried in his cell. It was the first time he had cried since signing his life away and becoming a slave.

All kinds of disturbing thoughts circulated in his mind. Why had Sherlock not come and told these people the truth of what happened? Could it be that it had all been some scheme? John remembered how Sherlock had begged John to take him, wanted him to be rough with him. Had it all been for show? After all, Sherlock had lied to him from day one: about the reasons for choosing John in the first place, about why his brother had insisted on Sherlock having sex with his slave and disciplining him, about injecting him with the bloody isotope so he could be tracked.

Well, Sherlock hadn’t actually _lied_ , he had just left certain things unsaid, but as far as John was concerned, lying by omission was still lying. So could it really be that Sherlock had framed him?

But even the thoughts of possible betrayal hadn’t been enough to drive away the dreams. Some part of John continued to believe in Sherlock. That Sherlock cared for him. That Sherlock would come for him.

Just as John was about to stretch and have a little constitutional around the grounds - all nine square metres of it - his cell door burst open.

“Move.”

"Hello, Eugene," John greeted. Of course that wasn’t the guard’s name, but as none of the staff had told him their names, he had decided to name them himself. "Wash time, is it? And here I thought it was only yesterday that you hosed me down. I hope you’ve got the temperature set right this time."

Of course, Eugene didn't bother answering. The guards never said anything to him apart from the grunted instructions, which were occasionally accompanied by “you rapist fuck” or something to that effect.

So, Eugene merely grabbed John by the arm and pulled him along the corridor. John could quickly tell they weren’t heading for the showers. When they came to a halt, John found himself standing outside the door to the same small room where he had been shown those pictures of Sherlock.

Eugene gave his arm a tug, but John refused to move.

“No. I can’t look at them again. No. Shove more electrodes into my brain or whatever the hell you like, but not that.”

Eugene, however, held his non-committal line, opened the door and pushed John inside.

John couldn't lie. When he saw the outline of a tall, lean figure standing there, waiting for him by the table, his heart did miss a beat or two.

However, as soon as the man turned around, John’s heart sank to the floor.

"What do you want from me?"

"Sit down, John," Mycroft said with a dry smile. "It's time we had a little talk."

"Sorry, can't really tell time any more." John placed his hands on the back of the chair, without the slightest intention of sitting on it.

“Well, then you just have to take my word for it.” Mycroft remained standing, as well. John suspected he enjoyed the difference in their height too much to give it up. “I am here to give you a choice, John.”

John said nothing, just stood and waited.

“It is a choice that most slaves can only dream of,” Mycroft continued. The smile in his voice made him sound like a cat with a particularly smelly herring.

“In that case, it’s probably not to suck your cock under the table at dinner parties?”

Mycroft cringed. “Please, John. There is no need to be vulgar.” He brushed his hands down the creases on his trousers. They remained just as perfectly straight and dustless as they had been. “I have no need for a slave. In fact, I find the whole concept frightfully distasteful.”

John shrugged. He felt the same way about Mycroft’s cock.

Mycroft cleared his throat before carrying on. “As you may remember, you were captured, charged, and sentenced to the Correctional Unit for an indefinite period of time. Also, your previous five-year contract with the auction house, has now been changed to a modus vivendi.”

John raised his eyebrows, not quite knowing which bit to tackle first. “I was sentenced to life in slavery? When?”

“Oh, while you were unconscious. The whole procedure is quite swift when dealing with slaves. No need for an actual trial or any of the usual bureaucracy.”

It was odd hearing a man like Mycroft talk of bureaucracy in such a disparaging way. John would’ve thought he got hard just thinking about red tape.

“They sentenced me to stay here indefinitely.” John felt this fact needed repeating. “While I was unconscious.”

Then he saw the folder on the table. Mycroft followed his gaze and sneered.

“Yes, you’ve seen these already, haven’t you?” he said, opening the folder and arranging the photos in a straight row. “You can understand that I was deeply upset when I read the report on what you did to Sherlock.” Mycroft placed both of his hands on the table and leaned to be at John’s eye level. “I am not a nice person when I’m upset, John.”

But John shook his head, refusing to look at the pictures again and instead locking eyes with Mycroft.

“No.”

“No?” Mycroft glanced down at the photos. John knew without a doubt which one he was looking at. He swallowed hard and tied not to gag, when Mycroft continued. “My brother had been beaten, strangled, cut and raped when they found him with your _penis_ ” - Mycroft spat out the word - “still inside him. So, pray, tell me: what exactly do you mean by ‘no’?”

John’s fingers squeezed around the back of the chair in front of him. It was metal, possibly aluminum. Hard but light. Perfect for bashing somebody’s brains in. If only it wasn’t bolted to the floor.

“I mean, _no_ , I didn’t hurt him,” he managed to say amazingly calmly, given the circumstances. “It was Mark and Peter and Freeman, they took Sherlock to the cellar and…“ John stopped, staring at Mycroft. “You don’t care who it was, do you? You just need someone to punish, and you’ve got me. Fine, then. Fair enough. But just so you know: I didn’t rape him. I could _never_ \--”

John turned his head away, willed himself not to look at the photos. That photo.

“The report, drawn up in collaboration with the auction house that holds your contract and the unnamed government taskforce in charge of the operation, quite clearly concludes that you were apprehended in the act of committing sexual assault.” Mycroft nodded to John as he turned back to face him. “Oh, yes. The soldiers even heard him, right before they apprehended you. ‘Please, let me go’ were his exact words, I believe, according to their statement.”

John remembered it, too. But Sherlock hadn’t been begging to go, but to _come_.

“He wanted it. At least...” John hesitated, the doubts flooding back once more. “At least he made me think that he wanted it.”

John sighed. It was pointless to try to convince Mycroft. Nobody would believe him, not without Sherlock’s word for it. And if Sherlock had, indeed, played him, John’s fate was sealed already.

“I want to see him,” he just said. “I want to hear it from him.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

“Why?”

Mycroft straightened himself, slipped his hand in his trouser pocket and stood back like the pompous arse he was.

“They had to use stun guns to get you off my brother, and given the situation in which you were found, I believe a fair amount of violence was also used. An excessive amount, in fact. So much so, that there will be repercussions. Not for what they did you, of course,” Mycroft hastened to add. “But as for Sherlock… Well, let us just say those responsible will be made to pay.”

Breath caught in John’s chest. “What did they...? Is he all right?”

Mycroft sat down and fiddled with the locks on his briefcase for a while before answering. It was black and seemed brand new, but John could smell the soft aroma of worn leather. So not new, just old and cared for. John wondered whether it contained more destinies than just his own.

“My brother regained consciousness early this morning,” Mycroft announced. Despite his formal demeanour, the relief was obvious in his voice. He flashed a tight smile. “It appears those two soldiers - or should I say _former_ soldiers - managed to hit him with their stun guns and knock him off the bed, where you had been pleasuring him, and as he had his hands tied at the time, he injured his head as he fell. He has been kept in an induced coma for the last six days. The swelling has gone down nicely, and the doctors assure me there shouldn’t be any long-term effects.” Mycroft’s smile turned warmer. “Then again, when it comes to my idiot brother, who can tell?”

With every word, John felt the lump in his throat melt away, bit by bit. Sherlock had been hurt but he was getting better. He was going to be all right. That was all that mattered.

Then something in Mycroft’s account caught his attention.

“Did you say I was _pleasuring_ him?”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows and cocked his head, looking like he was stating the obvious and John was an imbecile for not realising it.

“Why, naturally, I did. Since regaining consciousness, Sherlock has made it quite clear - painfully so, thanks to his rather graphic narrative - that what transpired between the two of you was, in fact, entirely consensual. Also most satisfying, as he insisted on telling me.”

John stared first at Mycroft, then at the row of photos still lying on the table in front of him.

“Then why put me through all this? You bastard! You’ve let them keep me here all this time, even though you knew, you _knew_ I didn’t--”

“Please, pay attention, John,” Mycroft said tiredly. “I just told you: my brother woke up only this morning. Until then I had every reason to believe you were guilty of everything you were charged with.” He shifted in his chair, crossing his legs. “However, since his waking, he has talked of little else - apart from insulting the nurses and demanding more medication. For reasons beyond my comprehension, he wants you back.”

“Back? As his slave?”

Mycroft nodded, closing his eyes. “I assume you are aware of the particulars of the plan that led to his acquiring you in the first place?”

Now it was John’s turn to nod.

“Mmm, yes. I suspect my brother failed to mention, though, that the ‘Shelter’, as you call it, wasn’t supposed to be raided?” Mycroft looked at him knowingly, apparently pleased that Sherlock had left this little tidbit untold. “The plan was to wait till you were at your final destination somewhere overseas, so that we could infiltrate the receiving end of the slave trafficking.” Mycroft gave a sigh. “But of course, Sherlock had to intervene. Couldn’t risk letting his pet slip through his fingers, could he now?”

John felt horrid. He wanted nothing more than to go to Sherlock, right this minute. He wanted apologise to him and tend to him, make sure he was getting the best treatment and being kept well away from opiates. But John was stuck here, sentenced for god knows how long, unable to do even the little he could have done when he was still Sherlock’s slave.

_Sherlock’s slave._

“Anyhow...” Mycroft drawled, taking another folder out of his briefcase and leafing through it. “As I said - some time back, it seems - I am here to offer you a choice. You may choose whether you--”

“Yes.”

Mycroft furrowed his brow. “I have yet to explain you what I’m offering, and you accept it already?”

“I still have over three years left in my contract - and a lifetime more after that - and you’re offering to transfer it to Sherlock, right?” John pulled his shoulders back and tried to stand as straight as his beaten back would allow. “My answer is yes. Now, when can I see my master?”

Mycroft closed the folder, looking annoyingly pleased with himself. “Eager to be back on the leash, are we? Now, now, John. I wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight if I didn’t inform you of your other choice. The one you also have Sherlock to thank for, although more indirectly.”

“I don’t care.”

“Oh, but I believe you will.”

He fished something else out of his briefcase and pushed it across the table. Despite the fact that it bore no distinguishing marks to set it apart from others of its kind, John recognised it immediately.

It was the collar Sherlock had put on him the night they had had sex. John had still been wearing it the following day, when they were attacked in the alley and - using the situation to his advantage, as John now knew - Sherlock drove him away.

The collar’s place was in his room in the Shelter, in the first drawer of his dresser, right next to a picture of Sherlock which he had torn out of an old newspaper. It was _his_ , John’s only truly personal possession.

“Ready to listen now, John?”

The wicked smile never left Mycroft’s lips as he explained the other option John had.

 

///

 

The rain felt good on John’s skin. Incredibly good. Who would have thought he would one day actually enjoy the tingle of cold drizzle that the blustery west wind spat on his face? It had grown colder during his time in the Correctional Unit, but after so many days spent at room temperature, even the little chill felt like a welcome change.

He stood on the kerb, waiting for the taxi that had been promised  him. He looked around, trying to decide in what part of London he was, but couldn’t find any landmarks or even road signs to give him a clue. The building behind him was nothing out of the ordinary, just a standard industrial concrete block, without any company names or logos decorating its front. And yet, inside were the dozens of others, locked in their tiny cells, waiting for the next round of pain and humiliation. Not knowing if it would be their last, not remembering how many rounds they had already suffered through.

And there wasn’t a damn thing John could do to help them.

As the black cab pulled up and came to a halt right in front of him, John hesitated. There was a tingling sensation in the back of his neck, and it wasn’t just from the tiny raindrops that made their way inside his jacket.

He reached to open the door, but didn’t get in. He just stood there, holding the door open, waiting with his chin on his chest. Then…

“We might as well share,” he said loudly, without lifting his head. “It’ll be cheaper than you following me.”

First there was only the sound of the wind and the rain and the idling motor, then he heard footsteps, approaching him from behind. The man walked a bit unsteadily, but surprisingly fast for someone who had been in a coma only that morning. That was not, however, the most significant thing John noticed about Sherlock as he stepped into the taxi.

“You do realise you’re not wearing any trousers?” John asked as he sat down next to Sherlock on the back seat. He was wrapped tightly in his greatcoat, but between its hem and his shoes, John could see nothing but bare skin. He tilted his head to peek under the coat. “Are you wearing _anything_ underneath?”

Sherlock opened his coat slightly, enough so that John could make out the colourless fabric of a hospital gown. “The coat and shoes were all they saved. Must have disposed of the rest.”

“Where to, then, mate?” came the voice from the driver’s seat.

“The nearest hospital, please,” John told him.

“NO!”

Startled by Sherlock’s reaction, John took a good look at him for the first time. It was not pretty. Sherlock was even paler than usual and his ghost-like face kept twitching, as if he needed to re-focus himself constantly. His hair was greasy and dishevelled, and his dilated pupils were an open book on the number of drugs swimming around his system.

“Sherlock, you need medical attention. You’ve only been out of a coma for _hours_. You have to go back to the hospital.”

But of course John’s quite reasonable - not to mention _medical_ \- opinion was met with vigorous head-shaking. Then a pained grunt. John could’ve told him that it usually wasn’t advisable to shake one’s head after suffering a head trauma.

“No. I’m perfectly fine. I’ll go where you go, because you’re perfectly fine.”

Sherlock thought about what he had said for a moment, but didn’t see fit to correct himself.

“In that case, I’ll go to the hospital,” John said, then added more loudly to the driver, “Yeah, the hospital, please. Any one will do.”

“No!” Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to collect himself. John could tell he was shaking all over, but couldn’t decide if it was from the cold or the pain. Or whether he was about to go to shock right that minute. “John. Yes. I admit I may be somewhat disorientiated. Disorientalitated.” Sherlock opened his eyes again, first appearing to be tasting the word, then deciding it was close enough. “But I’m not going back to the hospital. I’ll go where you go. Because you’re mine now. I made him promise. You’re mine.”

John studied the resolved look on Sherlock’s face, the quite uncanny impersonation of a child refusing to leave the store if he can’t have the half-melted bar of chocolate clasped in his tiny fist.

“Which is it, then?” called out the cabbie.

Sherlock was biting his lips, his eyes wide with determination. John would have liked nothing better than to smack that defiant look off his face, but doctors weren’t supposed to hit people who had recently been in a coma. Hippocrates had been very clear on that.

“Westminster. Baker Street,” John told the driver, resigned. Then, glaring at his bare knees, he added to Sherlock, “But if you die in this cab, I’ll never forgive you.”

“Me neither, mate!” shouted the cabbie, and he sounded like he meant it.

They sat in silence the rest of the way. From time to time, John would reach out to take Sherlock’s pulse - which was weak but steady - and on the last occasion, his hand just stayed there, resting softly on Sherlock’s wrist. It was such a small point of contact, only the width of his two fingers, yet John could feel it in his entire body.

When the taxi pulled up in front of number 221, John waited for Sherlock to get out first, then pulled out the roll of notes from his pocket to pay the driver.

“You paid him,” Sherlock said when John was standing beside him on the doorstep. The taxi had sped off and disappeared into the traffic. “You paid. With money. Not with a card, but with actual money.”

“Yes, I did.” John smiled. He hadn’t even realised how good it had felt, after all this time. “I even tipped him.”

But Sherlock didn’t look happy for him, not in the least. His face was frozen, his eyes wide open and staring blindly ahead. He was so agitated he was almost shuddering. John was suddenly afraid the shock might be too much for him and his battered brain.

“Sherlock, you need to calm down, all right? Let’s just go inside and get you into bed, yeah?”

John nearly pushed Sherlock through the door and up the stairs. They were briefly delayed by Mrs Hudson, who spotted them on the landing and darted across the hall to greet them. She threw her arms around John like a wrestler and refused to let go before John explained why it was of utmost importance to get Sherlock upstairs and horizontal.

“Coma! What on earth are you doing out of hospital after a coma?!” she shrieked, apparently torn between wanting to slap some sense into Sherlock and fearing that touching him might send him back into a coma right then and there. John knew how she felt. “I was so worried, when you disappeared like that, and that brother of yours wouldn’t tell me anything, and John had been gone for so long and there was nobody I could…”

Sobbing took over for a while, allowing John the chance to help Sherlock up the last flight of steps.

“But thank heavens John is back now and you’re taken care of, and we can put these last dark weeks behind us, because frankly, I don’t know if I could’ve coped with another night of that racket you made with the violin, and all that smoke, the whole house stinking of cigarettes...”

That was the last thing John heard her say before he and Sherlock reached the flat and he closed the door behind them.

“Come on, you go and have a nice lie-down and I’ll put the kettle on. Mrs Hudson will probably have little something for you to eat, because you need to eat, Sherlock, to get your strength--”

In mid-sentence, Sherlock’s mouth covered his and cut him short. The kiss was clumsy and messy and actually a bit uncomfortable for John, who was pinned against the wall with a picture frame pushing painfully between the vertebrae in his neck. Sherlock wasn’t particularly gentle, either: his teeth clanged against John’s a couple of times and his hold of John’s hair was more of a tug than a caress. John felt like he was being mauled by something frail but horny.

“He can’t do this to me,” Sherlock breathed into his mouth between kisses. “You’re mine… He can’t just set you free… Not just to spite me… I won’t have it!”

And he returned to attacking John’s lips. He was now trying to tear off John’s clothes as well, but as his hand-eye coordination wasn’t quite up to normal yet, he had little success with the shirt buttons.

“Sherlock. Please, stop.”

To his surprise, John felt Sherlock’s hold on him loosen at once. His mouth was still open but not moving any more, and he was leaning against John, his body suddenly softer, heavier. Slowly he started to slide down John’s front, only to be caught by John just as he was about to fall limp to the floor.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock lay in John’s arms, barely conscious and muttering something over and over again.

“How else… How else am I going to… To keep you… How else… ”

And that was it. Sherlock was out.

John dragged him to his bed and left him there with his coat still on. Then he closed the door and went to put the kettle on.

 

///

 

John’s start to a life as a free man was not quite what he might have expected.

Most of his time on the first day was spent trying to keep Sherlock in bed.

On the second, that changed to keeping him on the sofa.

Finally, on the third day, Sherlock settled in his armchair, which he promised he would not leave for a second if only he could have his computer. John allowed this on the condition that he _would_ leave the chair to use the bathroom instead of the bottle he had stashed under the chair.

The days spent next to Sherlock’s bed or the sofa were actually rather nice. There wasn’t much talking, since Sherlock appeared to be asleep for most of the time. There was touching, however: John often found his hand resting on Sherlock’s wrist a bit longer than was absolutely necessary to take his pulse, and sometimes when he tried to pull his hand away, Sherlock’s fingers wrapped around it and pressed it back in place. In fact, Sherlock’s reaction was so fast that John began to doubt whether he really even slept half the time John was there. Still, John enjoyed sitting there, holding Sherlock’s hand in his, so he thought it best not to grumble.

Once Sherlock moved to live in his chair, though, things started to get worse.

He would spend hours on his computer, doing research on god knows what, and afterwards, he would just sit still for even longer, staring at nothing, clearly thinking over everything he had just read.

Often, when John couldn’t take any more staring in silence, he would escape downstairs to enjoy a cup of tea and some gossip with Mrs Hudson. It was from her that he learned what had happened to the men, who had attacked them that fateful night John had ran away from Sherlock.

“Such horrid things they found on one of their computers, the police did,” Mrs Hudson said, pouring yet another cup for John. Then her voice dropped to nothing more than a whisper, as she added, “Paedo stuff. You know, pictures of children.”

She shuddered, then pushed the tray of biscuits closer to John. Her eyes sparkled with excitement when she continued.

“And another one had his room stacked with all kinds of drugs - enough for it to be with intent to sell, the papers said. And at least one of them was involved in piracy, movies and music and such. He’ll never pay off the fine for that, I can tell you, not with his dole check anyhow. And all local boys, apparently, lived just around the corner! Never would’ve believed, not around here, but you get all sorts these days…” Her voice drifted off and she reached for her third biscuit.

John took all this in, then sat there with his cup raised halfway up to his lips, waiting for the rest.

“Wow,” he finally said, when Mrs Hudson gave no sign of getting back to her narrative. “What about the last one?”

“What last one, dear?”

“Didn’t you say there were four of them?”

“No…” Mrs Hudson looked at him with furrowed brow, shaking her head. Then, suddenly, the shaking stopped and the spark returned to her eyes. “Now that you mention it, I think there really were _four_ of them. So,” she started to count the crimes with her fingers, “it was child porn, drugs, piracy and - what was it the police found out about the fourth one...?”

Mrs Hudson thought for a while. John could see tabloid pages turning in her mind. Then she seemed to stumble on the right piece of news.

“Espionage!”

She nodded in confirmation at John, whose mouth kept opening and closing as he tried to articulate his surprise. He set his cup carefully back on the saucer.

“Yes, that’s it! Dear me, who would’ve thought? Such a nice-looking boy - lovely hair, like an angel he was, at least in the photos - and all this time he’s been spying for the Russians!”

“So, umm, how did he end up?” John asked, trying to contain his glee. “I mean, is the trial over yet?”

“Trial? Oh, no, there was no trial. They just caught him, it was all over the papers, with pictures and all kinds of documents they’d found in his home. And well, that was it.”

“That was it? They just let him go?”

“No, no. I mean, that was it for him. Hanged himself in his cell. Or was made to hang himself, if you can believe the gossip,” Mrs Hudson said, leaving no doubt that she most certainly did. “Might have been the Russkies - you know, to silence him before he could talk - or it might have been someone who just didn’t like traitors to their country.”

She nodded knowingly. John had no choice but to join in. At least, it was more appropriate than bursting into laughter over a person’s death.

John never said anything to Sherlock about it, though. It sufficed to know that Sherlock had cared enough to make the bastards suffer for what they did. Bringing up the topic risked learning that Sherlock had done it for purely selfish reasons - maybe because Girlie-Hair had ripped his favourite shirt or because they had spilled beer on his precious coat - and that his wrath had nothing to do with how he felt about John.

If he felt anything at all.

Sherlock certainly didn’t give any hint of it during those days he spent in his chair, staring at his computer. In fact, the only times he truly acknowledged John’s presence was when John put his jacket on.

“Where are you going?”

“Out.”

“To do what?”

“Don’t know yet.”

“And when will you be back?”

“Later.”

Before Sherlock could ask any more intrusive questions, John lifted his hand. “Let me stop you right there. I am not your property any more, Sherlock. I can go wherever I please and do whatever the hell I want. Do you understand that?”

Sherlock nodded, chin pressed down and eyes on the laptop, then muttered something John apparently wasn’t even meant to hear.

“I _will_ come back, you know,” John added, noticing the deep crease between Sherlock’s brows. “I live here. Where else would I go?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Sherlock shrugged, then started firing away like a semi-automatic. “Maybe you meet a nice, dull girl in a coffee shop or the dry cleaner’s or some other humdrum place where single people tend to meet other single people, even though they ‘aren’t even looking, really’. And then you go for over-priced coffee, then over-priced dinner, and then you buy the cheapest brand of condom you can possibly find at the chemist’s on your way back to her place, because you will definitely not bring her here. Of course, after a few rounds of the same, you get married and have lots and lots of babies and move to some boringly middle-class suburb within an hour’s commute to the city, because ‘it’s just so convenient’, and I never see you again.”

Before replying, John let Sherlock draw in a few breaths. It was only fair.

“I’m only going to get some eggs. For breakfast. Which I intend to eat right here, in this flat. All right?”

Sherlock waved him away, obviously not convinced of John’s sincerity. And since John knew full well there were at least half a dozen eggs in the fridge, he didn’t care to argue.

Sherlock had never been a slave, no one had ever been in charge of his comings and goings. How could he possibly understand what it meant to John to be able to roam around the streets of London at a leisurely pace, without fear or guilt? Even the short while he had been living in Manchester, he had never really been free. But now, he didn’t have to keep looking over his shoulder or take unnecessary detours to make sure he wasn’t being followed. He didn’t jump every time a car happened to pull over next to him. He could even use his full name when meeting new people.

It was a bliss Sherlock couldn’t possibly understand. But it was also something John would’ve abandoned in a heartbeat if only things between Sherlock and him could return what they were. Before the Shelter. Before Sherlock had been hurt, before John had hurt him. Before John had confessed that he loved him.

Not once had Sherlock in any way referred to what John had told him, right before the stun guns hit them. Whether this was because Sherlock hadn’t heard him - what with all the commotion caused by Mycroft’s troops storming in - or whether he simply didn’t remember, due to the head injury he had suffered shortly after.

There was also the possibility that Sherlock had opted to delete it. As irrelevant.

It changed nothing for John’s part, of course. He would continue to love this impossible man, the same way he probably had for quite some time already. If it wasn’t to be reciprocated, then fine, John could live with that. If only things could be back to the way they were.

If only Sherlock would lecture him about the chemical properties of some exotic compound, or talk him into investigating dodgy-looking houses only to get beaten up by drug addicts, or even insult him by pointing out in exactly how many ways John’s method of organising his socks was wrong.

If Sherlock would just talk to him again. If Sherlock would touch him again.

 

///

 

The last time John went out - on the pretense of getting milk - the flat was empty when he returned.

Resting on Sherlock’s chair was a piece of paper with an address and a time scribbled on it, and on top of it, a credit card. John picked up the card to have a look at the name: _Mycroft Holmes_. And judging by the colour of it, the credit limit was high - assuming there even was one.

John put away the milk first. Then he threw away the phone number of the very charming woman he met at the checkout. They had talked about making cannoli, which John actually knew something about, thanks to his former owner with a sweet tooth and an eagerness to teach old slaves new tricks. She was nice - the woman at the shop, not his former owner - nice, and frightfully dull.

John sat down to go through his options. He could simply walk away, take the card and never come back. He could carry on with his life and use the card to finance his expenses until he could find a job for which an ex-slave, ex-army doctor might be qualified. Or until Mycroft stopped paying the credit card bill. Whichever came first.

Or he could be a good little slave and do what his master clearly expected him to do.

With a sigh, John took the address and the credit card and started for the door. If he was to be at that address at that time, he still had a couple of hours to spare. John could think of no better way to spend them than with a pint in his hand.

After all, Mycroft was buying.

 

///

 

With an especially smooth and delicious ale inside him, John arrived at the address Sherlock had left him. Even though he had never been there before, he could tell it was an auction house, and an upscale one, at that.

The first thing he noticed when he walked in was the rather limited selection: there weren’t nearly as many slaves there as in the auctions John had previously attended - in quite a different capacity, of course. The showroom was actually rather small, with only a handful of low podiums scattered around it and an aisle winding between them. In some twisted way, it resembled an art gallery, where well-dressed people wandered around with drinks in their hands, stopping every now and then to study a piece presented on a pedestal. It was far from the meat markets John had grown accustomed to. Apart from the fact that there was a naked person on each one of those pedestals.

John couldn’t have felt more ill at ease. Of course he knew no one there would be able to tell that he himself had only recently been a slave, it wasn’t branded on him, nobody could smell it out of him. Yet that uneasy feeling remained in the pit of his stomach as he tried and failed to disappear into the crowd. He was wearing the only decent clothes he owned, the ones Mycroft had provided him with when he left the Correctional Unit, and they made him stick out like sore thumb in rags.

He scanned the crowd for Sherlock’s distinctive figure - the dark curls, condescending demeanor and the Belstaff were usually hard to miss - but he couldn’t find any sign of him among the people sipping their champagne and browsing the items on display.

All of a sudden it dawned on him. Of course Sherlock wouldn’t be there. Why would he? John had been given the time and place of the auction and a credit card - all this right after Sherlock had made such a song and dance about John getting married and moving to god knows where.

This was about giving him the companion Sherlock thought John needed.

This was Frankenstein giving his monster a bride.

“You cock!”

It took him a moment to realise that he hadn’t just thought it. A large woman in a ridiculous hat next to him gasped and looked so shocked John suspected it was the first time she had heard such a word uttered out loud. And at a slave auction, of all places.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to… Sorry,” he said to no one in particular, turned on the spot and hurried to the other side of the room.

John made his way to one of the podiums, where a strikingly beautiful woman stood with a calm, almost serene look on her face. The dark eyes suggested she had been given a sedative, which, according to slave gossip, was customary in these high-end auctions. She had also been thoroughly oiled: her full breasts practically gleamed in the halogen lights above her and every line of her muscles appeared as in high-def.

She was gorgeous, and John found himself fiddling with the credit card in his pocket.

He could have her, just like that. He could buy her for his own. Do whatever he liked with her. To her. Was this what slave owners felt, this power over another human being? This overwhelming desire to truly _have_ somebody?

It was tempting, John had to admit that much. He would’ve liked nothing better than to have at least some power over a certain detective, for instance. The memory of taking Sherlock on this narrow bed in the Shelter, his hands tied behind his back, his arse raised up for John, begging to be thoroughly fucked…

Yeah, John could definitely see the appeal of being the dominant one. Nevertheless, he couldn’t get his mind around how anyone could get any enjoyment out of it without the other person’s consent.

He studied the girl’s face again. She had given her consent, written down on a piece of paper. But when somebody would take tonight, would she enjoy it? Would she beg for more?

Or would she just beg?

“If she’s your choice, I fear I may have made a grave error,” said a familiar voice from somewhere behind him.

John smiled to himself. He had known Sherlock wouldn’t be able to pass by the opportunity to spy on him and criticise his choice. Well, at least this provided John with the opportunity to set him straight.

“What, you don’t approve?” John asked, turning around.  “Did you honestly think I would bid on anybody here?”

He looked around and spotted Sherlock’s face, towering over a wall of people on the other side of the aisle. Sherlock was definitely not looking happy.

“I was rather counting on it, yes,” he said curtly.

“Why would I--”

Wait a minute. Since when had Sherlock been _that_ tall?

And then it hit him. The reason why he could see Sherlock from behind those people. It also handily explained why Sherlock wasn’t wearing any clothes.

John pushed his way through the men and women gathered around the podium. He took one look at Sherlock’s naked figure and the pair of female hands that were touching it, smoothing over the pale, oiled skin, occasionally stopping to squeeze the lean muscles or to stroke his genitals. Sherlock winced when she cupped his balls.

John felt his mouth drop open, and he had to look away. Look at anything but Sherlock. Which left him with the ceiling, and the buyers, and the slave girl’s exceedingly perky nipples.

“So you want her?” he heard Sherlock ask behind him.

Someone from the crowd muttered something about the slaves being expected to remain silent, but another shushed them and was soon supported by others. Apparently a number of the potential buyers didn’t mind hearing more of this particular slave’s voice.

“Chantelle is, no doubt, an excellent choice,” Sherlock continued.

John turned back towards him and noted the martyr-like indignation present on his face: the pouty lips, the tightened jaw, the unnecessary blinking and slight twitching of his eyebrows. It was the face of the second-best.

“Of course, I cannot blame you. Drugged out of her tiny mind, obviously, but all the more willing to please. I’m sure you will be very happy with her.”

John opened his mouth, then closed it again. He repeated the motions twice before he could force out actual words and not just expletives.

“ _You sold yourself into slavery!_ ” He took a few good breaths, before he could continue with the raving. “You actually went and _sold_ yourself! Into _slavery!_ What the hell is the matter with you?!”

He knew he was shouting - and if he hadn’t known, the prospective buyers around Sherlock’s podium were quick to point it out to him with their eye-rolling and theatrical shushing - but he considered the matter grave enough to merit some serious shouting.

”Do you even understand what you’ve done?! Do you realise what this means?!”

“Well, I was hoping it would mean that you would purchase me and proceed to have your way with me. Repeatedly and often,” Sherlock said as if stating the obvious.

“Are you _insane?!_ ”

“It was the only way I could think of to stop you from leaving me,” Sherlock said, sounding defensive. “Mycroft promised I could have you, but just because I foiled his little plan, the king of pettiness took you away from me. How else was I going to keep you with me?”

John stared blankly at him. How could anyone so brilliant be so bloody stupid?

“Sherlock. Did it ever occur to you to just _ask_ me?”

Sherlock frowned, looking confused. “You weren’t mine any more. Why would you have done anything I asked of you?”

“For god’s sake…”

John had already turned to leave, to get as far away from all of this as his legs and a taxi would carry him, when a woman’s voice stopped him in his tracks.

“My goodness, where is the staff? I wish this one to stop talking this instant and get his organ up, so I can take measurements. Staff!” she shrieked, turning her wrinkled face in all directions. The skin under her chin kept on going for a while afterwards. “They have really let the standards drop in this house, I tell you. They never used to let a slave waste perfectly good air by speaking. Why hasn’t this one been attended properly?”

“If by ‘attended’, you mean ‘drugged’, it is because they wouldn’t give me any, despite my numerous requests, because apparently I have the words ‘substance abuse’ scribbled down somewhere in my file,” Sherlock replied, startling the old woman enough to make her drop her brochure. “And no, I’m afraid I cannot get my organ up. If you knew the first thing about your opposite sex, you would be familiar with the concept of arousal and its requirements. For instance, I get no visual stimulation from looking at you,” - Sherlock glared at the crowd around him -”any of you, apart from a deep dislike and an urge to start throwing faeces around like an ape in a zoo. Nor do I get any physical pleasure from the two rubber-clad,” - Sherlock winced - “ _three_ rubber-clad fingers up my anus, which, though having found my prostate, have managed only to batter it without giving me any pleasure even by accident.”

The fact that the slave continued to speak - and _to her_ no less - forced the old woman’s eyes and mouth so wide open, John thought she resembled a toad with a fly caught in its throat. He hoped she would choke on it.

“Sherlock, you might want to stop talking now,” John said in a low voice, as he stepped closer to the podium. “They have ways of keeping you quiet, if the customers start complaining, and it’s not as nice as the drugs.”

“What do you care?” Sherlock scoffed at him. “As far as you’re concerned, I may just as well end up with a toad like her, feeding her flies while she violates my body. You just go and spend all my brother’s money on Chantelle over there. I’m sure you’ll be very happy together. With the IQ of a gnat, she’s almost as compliant without the drugs.”

“For god’s sake, Sherlock, I’m not going to bid on her or anyone else! Do you really not understand why I’m upset?” John lowered his voice, kept a smile on his face and hissed through his teeth, “You’re forcing me to give money to the system that hurt me, in more ways than I can say, the very system I’d do anything to take down!” John took a few good breaths and tried his best not to laugh out loud, even though the situation certainly was ridiculous enough. “I’m going to have to give money to those bastards. I’m going to _support slavery_ , Sherlock. And all because you couldn’t be bothered to just ask me if I wanted to be with you or not. No…” A burst of laughter escaped from somewhere deep inside him. John let it fly free. “No, you had to make this grand gesture, to go through this charade just to see if I’d pick you, right? _Right?_ ”

John let the laughter die on his lips and leaned even closer to Sherlock and whispered to his ear, “I still have the collar. The one you gave me.” He paused for a second, glancing around and making sure no one else would hear him. “I wear it when I masturbate.”

John pulled back, straightening up, all the time making sure not to look at Sherlock.

“John…”

“I’d better go and find a seat. Don’t want to miss the bidding.”

As John pushed his way through the crowd, he could hear the Toad Lady’s delighted “Oh my”, followed by the sound of a measuring tape being pulled out and a number being called out. The measurement was slightly above average but nothing out of the ordinary, which made John wonder if it was the unusually straight line of Sherlock’s shaft or the deliciously pink glans at the end of it that had awarded such a commotion. Then he decidedly stopped thinking about it.

 

///

 

As John sat in his comfortable chair and watched the parade of slaves being presented to him and his fellow customers, he couldn’t help but feel guilty. He had no right being here. He belonged out there, on the stage. Well, perhaps not this particular stage, but a much, much crappier one. With crates instead of podiums and at least two-digit smaller starting prices. But the role of the buyer, let alone owner, just didn’t suit him at all.

Extremely attractive and extremely sad men and women came and went, and John didn’t raise his paddle. He came close to bidding when Chantelle’s turn came up and she was escorted to take her place in the ‘showcase’: a small box with a two-way mirror on each side, so that the slave can been seen but they won’t see the audience. Chantelle was strung out of her mind, barely keeping herself upright, let alone standing on the pedestal inside the showcase. She ended up falling off it twice, and received applause for her performance. The audience especially enjoyed it when she fell against the front glass, squeezing her augmented breasts against it in a way that had to be painful. She sold for over ten times more than anyone had ever paid for John.

After that, John almost got up and left. He felt sick and guilty and just too out-of-place. But of course that was when they marched Sherlock on stage.

John had been able to look at all the other slaves quite coolly and matter-of-factly. Yes, he had felt bad for them, felt guilty for not being able to help them, but he had remained detached, not truly interested in any of them. But when they brought Sherlock on, all sense escaped John’s head.

It wasn’t simply the way he looked - which was magnificent, of course: he had received a fresh coat of oil - he must’ve needed it after all the groping in the showroom - and his perfectly formed body glistened like white, polished marble. His hands were tied in front of him now; John assumed there had been some disciplinary issues after he had left the showroom.

But John didn’t only see his body up there on the stage. This wasn’t just another gorgeous piece of meat they were selling. This was _Sherlock_. And he was something so much _more_ , something so far out of this world, that no catalogue description could ever come close to what was actually on sale here.

That was when John felt it. The twitch. He was sitting at a slave auction, a paddle in his hand and ready to offer money for another human being, and he was getting hard. The sight of Sherlock standing there in the showcase, with the spotlight making his body practically sparkle in the darkness of the room, his narrowed eyes looking straight at the audience, as if he could pierce through the mirror and see each and every one in the crowd, reading their lives from their clothes, their stance, or the bloody angle in which they held their paddles…

It was too much. John knew he wanted that man. Wanted him desperately, perversely.

He held up his paddle and kept it up. There were other bids, jacking the price up higher and higher, but John just held the paddle up feeling he was in well over his head. Finally, when the only bidders left were just him and the Toad Lady - who else - John got up and made his way to his rival.

“I’m sorry, I know this isn’t done,” he said in a low whisper to the woman, who was clearly outraged by his nerve, “but I just thought I’d save us both a lot of time, if I explained that I am going to take that man home with me. You see,” - he pulled the credit card out of his pocket - “I have this card, which, as you can see, has been issued by the Bank of England. And yes, I’m aware the Bank of England doesn’t give out credit cards, but that should also tell you that I’m at an unusual advantage here. You might even say I have an unlimited budget. Well, limited to the size of England, that is. I have all this money that I could spend on just about anything, but the only thing I want is _him_. So, I think you might want to end this, sooner rather than later.”

John gave the Toad Lady a polite smile and turned to leave. Then he halted, adding over his shoulder, “Just so we’re clear: if you so much as breathe in his direction again, I will hunt you down and cut you into little pieces. And I’ll bring my measuring tape to make sure the pieces are identical in size.”

John left the woman, still holding his paddle high up.

The auction of Sherlock Holmes closed on that bid, which was more John feared even England had on its bank account.

 

///

 

After the auction closed, it took nearly an hour of processing and signing and confirming and preparing before John found himself in a small and cosy room that resembled an ordinary waiting room, with the notable exception of a kingsize bed.

“Can’t these people wait till they get home?” John muttered to himself, staring at the bed. None of the auctions he had been in had provided such a room for the newly-purchased. Then again, some of them hadn’t even provided a roof.

When at last he heard the knock on the door, his heart missed a beat or two. But when he went to open it, his poor heart went berserk.

Sherlock stood there dressed - according to John’s instructions - in nothing but a blindfold. He was clearly uncomfortable with this arrangement and kept turning his head at every little noise around him, sniffing the air as if in the hope of catching the scent of a perfume.

The only instruction that hadn’t been followed, however, was that his hands were still bound in front of him. After he was shoved over the threshold, John gave the guard standing behind him a signal to untie him.

The guard hesitated. “He is a bit wilful.”

John nodded impatiently, trying to indicate that that was pretty much the reason why he had been forced to buy Sherlock in the first place.

The guard did as he was told, though making it silently clear he was acting against his better judgement, and left. John went to lock the door after him.

The idea to teach Sherlock a lesson had popped into his mind while waiting, and the auction house staff had been eager to fulfil his little request. It had occurred to him that due to the manner in which the auction had been organised, Sherlock couldn’t possibly know for certain _who_ had bought him - a fact, which John felt almost obliged to exploit.

As Sherlock now stood there in front of John, it was obvious the not knowing was simply eating at the man who only trusted the evidence of his own eyes.

As for his other senses, John had made sure he wore no fragrance apart from soap - the room came with a bath, after all, so it would’ve been a waste not to use it. He had even removed his shoes so as to hide the sound of his footsteps, which Sherlock might have recognised.

Sherlock had his back to him and his smooth, flawless skin shone like it had been painted on - which, after a second, John realised it was: all traces of Sherlock’s bruises were gone, cleverly concealed with body makeup. In this auction house, the buyers expected nothing but the best, and the best they had certainly been given. John could only admire the oiled body in front of him:  the straight line of Sherlock’s back, the lean muscles around his shoulders, the perfectly rounded arse that simply screamed to be grabbed, caressed, taken…

Without a second thought, John sank to his knees and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s right buttock.

Sherlock let out a surprised gasp. Definitely not what he had been expecting from his new owner. Extremely pleased with himself, John moved on the to other cheek, kissing it as gently and softly as he had the first one. The oil on Sherlock’s skin smelled faintly of almonds, but tasted neutral on John’s tongue. It made the pale skin shine so deliciously, so invitingly, that once the thought had occurred to him, he found himself unable to resist the temptation: placing both his hands on Sherlock’s hips, he pushed his face between the oiled buttocks right above the perineum and ran it all the way up along the cleft. He could feel the tip of his nose brush over the tight ring of Sherlock’s pucker.

Sherlock yelped, pulling himself away and turning around. It seemed that having his master - John was certain Sherlock could tell by the stubble that his owner was a man - do something so bizarre and intimate as bury his face in his slave’s arse was a breaking point for Sherlock. With one fierce yank, the blindfold was gone and Sherlock was staring flushed and breathless down at John.

The panic on his face melted quickly into relief, then annoyance.

“That was low.”

“Had you there for a while, didn’t I?” John asked as he got up, smiling broadly. “Not nice, is it, not knowing who has the rights to your body?”

“No,” Sherlock said curtly. “Point made.”

“Promise you’ll never do something this stupid again?”

“Absolutely not.”

Sherlock’s smirk made John love him all the more. That, and want to punch him in the gut.

Sherlock glanced around the room, even peeked through the open door to the bathroom.

“So, are the perky breasts coming to join us or did you get another room just for her?”

It took John a moment to decipher what Sherlock was talking about.

“I didn’t bid on Chantelle.”

“No? I thought you found her absolutely mesmerising.”

John stared at him. “Yeah, she was lovely. They all were. And to tell you the truth, I would’ve wanted to bid on everyone of them, but I doubted your brother would’ve picked up the check for anyone but you.”

“I see. So, you couldn’t buy the perky breasts but had to content yourself with me.”

“ _Content_? Sherlock…” John let his gaze travel up and down Sherlock’s naked body, the pale perfection of it. Take the straightest man on earth - so bloody straight he couldn’t even bend over to tie his shoes - and even he would’ve had some serious doubts if presented with something as exquisite as Sherlock.

This was not, however, something John would ever share with Sherlock. After all, the jealous streak, which Sherlock seemed to have developed, wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

“No, I didn’t want to _buy_ anyone. I wanted to _free_ them.”

John turned and walked over to a small table, where a bottle and two glasses sat on a silver platter. Apparently paying six figures for a slave also got you a complimentary bottle of vintage wine. A bargain, really.

“Do you even realise what your little stunt put me through?” he asked as he poured wine liberally into both glasses. “How bad I felt having to sit out there and not be able to do anything to help all those poor people?”

Sherlock snorted. “Poor? John, you do realise these people are all here willingly? Everyone of them has sold themselves out of their own choice.”

“That’s not the whole truth and you know it. Not all have a choice, not really. I didn’t.” John emptied his glass of wine with one long sip. It tasted bitter, despite its price.

“I know,” Sherlock said softly.

This was the first time he had referenced John’s past, which he obviously was fully aware of. Neither of them pursued the subject any further, however, didn’t mention words like ‘field surgery’ or ‘malpractice suit’ or 'debt the size of a small mountain'. Sherlock just came to stand right beside John, refusing the wine. John poured himself another glass.

“John, I chose this - the disguise of a slave, if you will - because it was the only way I could think of to…”

“You really didn’t need to do that, you know. Be so melodramatic. I had no intention of leaving you unless you drove me away.” John paused. “I never did.”

“Yes, so you said,” Sherlock said, waggling his hand frustratedly, “but then you also implied that you were in love with me - you said _love_ , John.” Sherlock managed to make it sound like the filthiest word he knew. “How was I to answer to that?”

“Oh, I don’t know, with a ‘thank you’, maybe?” John wanted to laugh, but the situation was too absurd even for that. “Anything but this!”

“I cannot give you what you want!” Sherlock snapped at him, suddenly furious. “For god’s sake, how am I supposed to know how--” He paused, drawing in breath. When he continued, it was the same cool and collected Sherlock he always was. “My other choice was to shoot myself in the foot and have you take care of me. I discarded that plan as too temporary. Selling myself into slavery and having you purchase me seemed like a more permanent arrangement.”

“You do know you’re a bit mad, don’t you? I’m starting to think your brother’s right. You should be under constant supervision and not allowed to make any decisions on your own.”

A smile crept onto Sherlock’s lips.

“Well, you bought me. You may decide for me now. What will it be - _master_?”

John considered this. A number of tempting possibilities sprang to mind, most of them variations of the same theme.

“Kissing would be a great start. Yeah. I remember liking that.”

“As you wish,” said Sherlock and to John’s surprise, he leaned in to place a gentle, almost chaste kiss on John’s closed lips. Somewhere far away, John heard glass shattering against the hardwood floor.

“Yeah, I think I’d like a lot more of that,” he said, tasting his lips, as Sherlock pulled back. “And then I definitely want some serious shagging on that very comfortable looking bed over there.”

Sherlock looked taken aback. At first John thought it was the proposition to have sex, which Sherlock had evidently understood the wrong way around, and so he hurried to clarify, “I mean me. Not you. I mean, I want you to fuck me.”

But it appeared that wasn’t the source of Sherlock’s hesitation.

“I know, as your slave, I’m supposed to follow your orders without question” - John shot him an angry look for the feigned obedience -  “but we’d better wait till we’re back home. There you’re welcome to have me any way you want.“

John had to admit that Sherlock’s plan sounded attractive. Very much so, actually. But he also had to admit that no, he most definitely could _not_ wait till they got home. Not when Sherlock stood there all naked and oiled and just so uncannily beautiful that John was already painfully hard just from looking at him.

“Sherlock, let me put it this way,” he said, taking Sherlock’s half-erect penis in his hand and giving it a squeeze. Sherlock let out a gasp that left his full lips invitingly open. “Either you fuck me into that mattress as hard as you once promised me, or I’ll just suck you off where you stand. Because I really - _really_ \- have to get you inside me. Right now.”

Sherlock eyed him suspiciously, then started speaking much too fast. “You do realise I was trying to put you off, with what I said to you in that alley? Mycroft was pressuring me to drive you away, and I feared I wouldn’t be able to go through with the beating. Considering what your previous master had done, I estimated that my threatening to take you by force would be enough to have you run off--”

“Yeah, I sort of thought so, too,” John stopped him. He could feel the redness spread over his cheeks. “But as it turns out, I may be a bit wrong in the head. I have just bought my former master at an auction, after all. Doesn’t that tell you enough about me?”

There was a light in Sherlock’s eyes that made them sparkle like gold. John felt weak in the knees.

“Now, will you, please, stop talking and shove this in me?” John gave Sherlock’s cock another squeeze that left him speechless. But only for a moment.

“John, there’s something you ought to know. You haven’t actually bought--”

“Don’t you dare bring up your brother,” John cut him short. He felt that saying Mycroft’s name out loud might conjure him up like Beetlejuice, only scarier. “No, I didn’t actually pay for you, but as far as this House is concerned, it’s my name on that paper. For all intents and purposes, you’re _mine_.”

Without warning, John took Sherlock by the shoulders and slammed him back against the wall. The look on Sherlock’s face was a mixture of surprise and excitement, as John held him at arms length, staring into his widened eyes, which the dim light of the room turned almost golden. One glance down and he could see Sherlock’s erection jutting out of him, hard as a tree branch.

“Sherlock. I’m just about ready to come in my pants like bloody teenager, so if you’re not going to fuck me, I swear to god, I’ll do it myself.”

“But can’t we just--”

Sherlock’s objection was lost the second John dropped down to his knees, wrapped his lips around the tip of Sherlock’s penis and gave it a long, wet kiss. Sherlock didn’t make a noise, only stood there, leaning heavily against the wall and with an absolutely shocked expression on his face. John kept placing kisses along the shaft, the inside of his thighs, his testicles, his abdomen - anywhere he could reach, really.

“No one’s ever done this to you, have they?” John asked, rubbing the pink, wet tip against his cheek as he spoke. “Not even a slave?”

“I told you. Never wanted a slave.” Sherlock’s voice was hoarse and breathless, and he looked like he was in agony. “You’re the only one who’s ever… Oh, god. John. I’m not going to--”

Whatever Sherlock might have wanted to say was drowned by a low moan as John swallowed him all the way down.

Oh, dear god.It tasted every bit as good as John had imagined. And he had spent considerable time fantasising about Sherlock’s cock. The only thing he hadn’t anticipated was the scent of almond oil, which kept overlapping with the smell of Sherlock’s skin in such a delicious way that John could barely contain himself. He took Sherlock in as much as he could, letting the tip hit the back of his throat, and then swallowed around it.

John had thought Sherlock would take hold of his hair and really fuck his mouth, hard and brutal. And John wouldn’t have minded, not one bit. But Sherlock’s hands stayed glued to his sides, his whole body tensed as if ready to pull away at any moment. To his surprise, John found himself enjoying this new way of giving a blowjob: without a hand holding the back of his head and forcing the organ down his throat, without being told what a useless piece of shit he was, good for one thing and one thing only, and without a belt landing on his back whenever he was bold enough to try to draw breath.

With Sherlock, he actually relished the rush of panic that coursed through his body every time Sherlock’s cock blocked his windpipe and stopped his breathing. He let it stay there, deep in his throat, for as long as he could, enjoying the dizziness from the lack of oxygen and the incredibly dirty feeling of having his mouth full of Sherlock. Then, when it proved too much, he pulled his head back gulped in air again.

It was amazing that he could just do that, of his own free will. John could barely believe the surge of power it gave him.

John let Sherlock slip out of his mouth for just long enough to get his shirt off. As he undid the buttons, he glanced up and found Sherlock standing there with his eyes tightly closed, brows furrowed and lips sucked in.

“Sherlock?”

“Mmm?”

“Could you, maybe, look at me?”

“John, the only thing keeping me from coming on your face right now is an ancient meditation technique, which requires my full concentration or I’ll lose count of the chlorides.”

John considered this cryptic statement for a moment. When he believed he had cracked the code, he got up. “Which one are you at?”

“Germanium tetrachloride. For the second time.”

“Wow. Okay.” Of course, John had no idea how many chlorides there were, but it sounded impressive. “Better get a move on, then.”

He pulled Sherlock along with him, meeting no resistance, and headed towards the bed. John tore off the rest of his clothes on the way. It wasn’t graceful but it was quick, and Sherlock sounded like he appreciated that. John lay down first, and Sherlock still had enough sense in him to crawl after him and settle on his knees between John’s legs.

Next to his head, John noticed an assortment of aids, compliments of the house, including lubricant - in various different flavours - and a fresh pack of surgical gloves.

Ignoring the somewhat uncomfortable associations with the showroom, John fished a pair of gloves out of the pack and handed them and a tube of lubricant to Sherlock with a meaningful nod.

Of course, Sherlock couldn’t see the nod, as his eyes were again tightly shut.

“Take it. You need to open me up first. Sherlock? Do you hear me?”

“Only too well. Will you, please, refrain from using such provocative words as ‘open’? I can barely contain myself as it is.” Sherlock opened his eyelids slightly - and closed them again instantly. “And for god’s sake, turn around! Your face is far too expressive, I can’t stand it!”

“Fine,” John said as he rolled over onto his stomach, then lifted his arse high up for Sherlock. “I’ll try not to express anything while you fuck my arse with your fingers.”

“ _John_!”

John chuckled. He would never admit it to Sherlock, but secretly he was extremely pleased to be looking at anything but Sherlock’s oiled body, the dishevelled curls, the full, red lips that John now had the right to kiss whenever he wanted - not because he had bought that right, but because Sherlock had _given_ it to him.

_Oh, god._

“Hurry up back there!” he snapped, feeling the tension in balls rise. He wouldn’t fare much better than Sherlock if they didn’t get a move on.

In answer to his plea, he heard the sharp snap of a surgical glove against Sherlock’s wrist. Soon after there was the cool, clinical sensation of a slicked up finger being pushed against his pucker and then eased slowly inside. He felt his muscles clench around it for a few seconds, then gradually relax. It wasn’t at all uncomfortable, possibly thanks to the number of times in the past couple of days that he had brought himself off with his fingers up his own arse. Living with Sherlock without being touched had been agony, but this was also something John didn’t care to elaborate to Sherlock.

“More,” he just said.

Sherlock let out a muffled whine behind him. “You promised to keep quiet,” he muttered angrily as he pulled his finger out, evidently adding on more lubricant. “It’s bad enough having to look at your behind.”

John felt a cold shiver. “Something wrong with my behind?”

“For god’s sake, you must have the most expressive buttocks known to man! Twitching and quivering like that, responding to every move I make. It’s too much, John!”

When the second finger slipped in, there was no hesitation any more, no attempt at being careful or gentle. Sherlock just shoved both of them in simultaneously, as far as they would possibly go.

Now John felt the burn, as Sherlock’s fingers forced his muscles to stretch. Something of a whimper escaped his lips. But he also felt something quite different, something entirely wonderful.

“There,” he managed to whisper through his teeth. “Oh god... Right there...”

“If you won’t stop making that noise I’ll make sure to avoid hitting your prostate again.”

John bit on his lip to hold back the moans as the knuckles of Sherlock’s fingers found the sensitive spot again. And again. In and out, his fingers went, stabbing at John’s prostate harder and harder each time, until it was too much to keep quiet any more.

“Sherlock, stop. I’m ready.”

Sherlock stopped moving, his fingers still inside John. “Are you sure? According to the research I did previously, it takes at least twice this long to fully stretch somebody open. Although, surprisingly often the participants are already so wide open that one cannot help but suspect that--”

“Quit stalling and just bugger me already!” John pulled away from Sherlock and his fingers, and turned over to face him. “For the last time, porn is not an accurate depiction of sex. I’m telling you I’m ready, so you just get your cock slick and ram it up me!”

Sherlock took a shuddering breath. The look on his face was almost horrified, but he managed to pull the glove off, then started to spread the lubricant over his shaft. His fingers brushed over the swollen organ so quickly and lightly that one would’ve thought his cock was burning hot. John found it incredibly flattering, and also a bit funny.

When finished, Sherlock aligned himself between John’s legs. His cock looked terrifying and much more than just slightly above average.

“Sure?”

“Wait.” John took a pillow and slipped it under his hips. Then he reached down, took Sherlock in his hand and guided him to his pucker. “Ready.”

“Yes?”

“Yes!”

And then it was actually happening: Sherlock was pushing inside him for the first time. John had thought about this countless times as he lay in his narrow bed in the Shelter. In his head, he had heard the threats Sherlock had made after their first kiss in the alley -   _tie you to the kitchen table … arse spread wide open … pound you so hard you will scream_ \- and mastubated fiercely as the scene played out in his mind’s eye. But even with the collar around his neck and a finger up his arse, it hadn’t come even close to the real thing.

Now, finally, Sherlock was taking him. For real. For good.

John had nearly forgotten how sharp the pain of first entry actually was, and Sherlock’s initial push left him breathless for a while. Apparently Sherlock had his eyes open this time, since he stopped moving the second he was inside, but John kept his own eyes tightly shut, concentrating on driving the pain away. He tried to relax his muscles, ease the pressure inside him that felt like a madman with a knife was wreaking havoc in his gut. Slowly the shooting pain started to soften, turning first into more of a hammering, as the madman traded down his weapon. Then that, too, began to subside, leaving only something of an afterburn behind, as if somebody had taken away the hammer and left the madman with an empty lighter that only made sparks.

“John?”

“Yes,” was all John could muster, but he hoped it conveyed it all.

Sherlock’s motions were slow, careful to the point of being annoying, and John found himself lifting his legs up and placing them on Sherlock’s shoulders. This way he could not only get Sherlock in deeper, but it also gave him some control.

“Yes,” he repeated, digging his heels into Sherlock’s shoulders for leverage and pushing his arse towards him.

This time Sherlock appeared to get the message. He began pushing in harder, though still not nearly as roughly as John would have liked. But he had angled his thrusts perfectly - of course, he had - and was hitting that sweet spot over and over again. John dug his fingers in the bedding, trying to hold on to something concrete to keep him from floating out of reality.

“I didn’t know,” Sherlock muttered to himself. John wasn’t sure if he even realised he was saying it out loud. “I wanted this. For so long. So long. You, only you. No-one else. Didn’t know how. Why would you. Couldn’t make you. Could never hurt. You, John…”

John didn’t understand half of it, but it made him reach for Sherlock’s face and pull him down for a long, desperate kiss. The weight of Sherlock leaning down against his legs nearly broke him in two, but John wouldn’t let go. He wasn’t sure what Sherlock’s feelings for him were - if Sherlock even knew them himself - but as for his own, there was no doubt. He didn’t dare use that word again for fear of startling Sherlock, but he felt his heart burst out of his chest when Sherlock returned his kiss with the same desperation and need.

“I’m yours,” he whispered as he let himself fall back down on the bed. “Always yours.”

The sound of the door being opened seemed so out of place, it took John a moment to pinpoint exactly what was wrong with it.

Only when he peeked around Sherlock’s side and saw Mycroft standing at the foot of the bed with a very familiarly dressed soldier behind him did John fully understand what was happening.

“What the hell is _he_ doing here?” he asked Sherlock, while staring at the intruders.

Sherlock didn’t answer, but John could just about hear his teeth grind.

“Kindly extract yourself from him, Sherlock,” said Mycroft, who was looking pointedly at the ceiling and not at John’s and Sherlock’s naked, entangled bodies.

“Go away,” Sherlock snapped without turning his head. And, more importantly, without pulling out of John.

“Not without you, brother dear.” Mycroft shifted his weight from one leg to the other and back again. “Do you honestly think I’m in the habit of attending these sorts of things personally? Please.” He snorted. “However, the closing down of the Houses will undoubtedly end up on the front page, and I have no intention of having it made public that my own brother is idiotic enough to have sold himself into slavery. So, put on your clothes and come with me. _Now_ , Sherlock.”

“No.” Sherlock shot a look over his shoulder. “I’m doing what you once insisted on and _giving him one_. Have you changed your mind about wanting to watch?”

“There’s no need to be disgusting,” Mycroft said, bringing his hand to his lips as if to keep him from retching. “I hardly care whether you engage in sodomy with him or not. It serves no purpose any more. You’re welcome to take your lover with you, but you must leave this place.”

“Mycroft, let me make myself perfectly clear,” said Sherlock and pushed himself deeper into John, leaving him gasping. “I’m currently inside the man I want to spend my life with, doing only the first of many things I intend to engage with him - I have a file, with illustrations, if you’re interested - and there is nothing - _nothing_ \- you can say to make me stop now. So, in words you’ve been hearing since the schoolyard: _piss off, Mycroft_.”

“Nothing I can say?” Mycroft asked, lowering his gaze for the first time. John really didn’t like the smirk on his face. “So I assume you have already informed John that you were aware of this audit, as a consequence of which, all of today’s transactions are made null, including your ill-advised contract and the purchase made with my credit card. Which you stole, by the way.” Now Mycroft directed his words to John. “The point remains, that Sherlock is not yours now any more than he was before.”

“Wait. What?” John searched Sherlock’s face for an explanation, but found nothing he wanted to hear. “Sherlock? Did you know about this?”

Sherlock’s silence was answer enough.

“So, none of it really happened? It was all just another bloody charade?”

When Sherlock tried to correct him earlier, John had merely assumed he meant that Mycroft, as the cardholder, was his rightful owner. But in actual fact, what he had been trying to say was that he was a manipulating scumbag, who had known about the Houses being shut down and used this opportunity to force a commitment out of John, to tie John to himself with a piece of paper that didn’t actually hold any power.

“You fucking idiot…”

John tried to slide up on the bed and pull away from Sherlock, but Sherlock’s arms wrapped tighter around his legs, holding him right where he was.

“John, I…”

“Let go of me!”

“Please try to listen, John,” Mycroft sighed in an infuriatingly patronising way. “I told you: Sherlock is just as much yours now as he ever was. You may not be his legal owner, but you have most certainly owned my brother for a long time.” Mycroft chuckled. “This was merely his unnecessarily roundabout way of expressing his feelings towards you.”

Then Mycroft cocked his head, talking to Sherlock now, “I know you have a taste for grandeur, but selling yourself into _slavery_? Oh, my. A small gift or a romantic dinner might have been better suited, don’t you think?”

But this was not, however, what John got caught on.

“Feelings?” John repeated, still trying to push himself off of Sherlock, but with less determination now. He found this a bit unsettling to be having this discussion when he was practically folded in two and Sherlock’s cock was still inside him. “You have feelings for me?”

But it was Mycroft who answered in Sherlock’s stead. “Of course he has, John. Why else do you think I would’ve offered you the choice to be his in the first place? It would’ve made things simpler had I accepted your eager plea to re-enter his service.” A sneer crept into Mycroft’s voice. “But thanks to Sherlock’s butting his nose into my plans and jeopardising the entire operation, I couldn’t resist the temptation of setting the object of his affection free again. Offer him more of a challenge, shall we say?”

Mycroft chuckled, sounding so terribly pleased with himself.

Something he said seemed to make a difference to Sherlock, though. His movements stilled and he locked eyes with John.

“You were willing to stay on as my slave? You chose to be… mine?”

It was an odd thing to pick out of everything Mycroft had said, but hearing the depth of emotion in Sherlock’s voice swelled something inside John. Also, a lot less romantically, it made his cock twitch.

John nodded. “Yeah, of course I did.”

“John…”

John felt the tension in his body subside, and a warmer sense of relief took over. He looked into Sherlock’s eyes and saw the clueless, desperate man that he truly was. This was the one thing Sherlock didn’t know. He had no idea how the heart worked, couldn’t understand that all he had to do was to let John love him. He didn’t need documents and signatures and payments to tie Sherlock to himself, nor did he care for declarations of undying love. He just wanted… this.

“Quite a pair, the two of you are,” spat Mycroft. “Both so eager to be owned by the other. Corporeal capitalism at its finest, I should say. Well, back to Baker Street you go. I’m sure you’ll have endless fun playing shop with your bodies.”

John, however, wasn’t really listening to his whiny voice, nagging somewhere in the background. He directed his words to Sherlock and Sherlock alone.

“I may have a few suggestions to add to your file. About the things we could do. I… I have been collecting ideas for a while now.”

Sherlock’s face lit up. There was definite movement inside John, as well.

“Dirty things?” Sherlock asked.

“Absolutely filthy.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Mycroft spoke again, louder this time to reach them both. “Please. Save the profanities till you’re behind properly closed doors, preferably-- Sherlock!”

John felt that Mycroft’s outrage was justified, as Sherlock had just started moving again. Despite his brother watching them no more than ten feet away, despite the uncomfortable but suddenly curious soldier standing behind him, despite everything going around them in the auction house, Sherlock was fucking him with deep, hard thrusts.

“Sherlock! This auction house is to be closed down. You cannot--”

“No, I’m having John now, because he’s letting me. Do you understand? He’s letting me have him, and I truly don’t care who’s watching or who knows or whether there’s a house around us or not, when we’re finished.”

“But Sherlock, you must--”

“Oh, just fuck off already, Mycroft!”

“Mind your language. I was merely trying to point out that the love of your life is about to come. The shallow breathing, the flush around the chest and neck, the tiny spasms in the lower abdomen, the curling toes. Prostate stimulation, dear brother. It can be a bit tricky for the inexperienced.”

“John?”

John opened his eyes only enough to catch a glimpse of Sherlock’s furrowed brow and Mycroft’s knowing smile. Then he shut the two Holmes’ out and returned to concentrating hard on germanium tetrachloride and others of its kind, only of different nationalities.

Unable to speak, he brought his hand up to cup Sherlock’s face, brushing his thumb gently over his parted lips. In the next instant he realised Sherlock had snatched his thumb inside his mouth, sucking on it in time with the movement of his hips.

John let out a cry.

Somewhere far away, a door slammed shut.

“John…” came Sherlock’s voice in a pitch so low it couldn’t possibly be legal.

John pulled his hand away from Sherlock’s mouth and wrapped his wet fingers around his cock. He had never in his life been this close to coming without being touched, and so he just held his hand there, letting it jerk only through Sherlock’s thrusts. Sherlock’s nails were digging painfully into his thighs as he pushed John’s legs higher up on his shoulders, kissing and biting them as if it was the only thing stopping him from coming. And it wasn’t enough.

“John…!”

“It’s okay,” he told Sherlock in a raspy voice that didn’t belong to him. His own erection was slippery with pre-come and Sherlock’s spit, and he knew he only needed to give it a squeeze to climax. “It’s okay, Sherlock. Let me see you come.”

As Sherlock pushed inside him once more and breathed out his silent orgasm, it was suddenly all clear on his face: the disbelief, the fear, and finally, the surrender. Sherlock would never be able to articulate his feelings, not like a normal person, but at that moment, John knew that he _felt_ it.

The last thing John thought about before giving his own cock that one squeeze it needed and shooting his load onto his stomach was that _this was it_. He would run around solving crimes and helping Sherlock be the greatest detective the world had ever known, and in between, he would shag the living daylights out of him.

And Sherlock had agreed to it, not on some piece of paper, but right here, inside him, Sherlock had agreed to be loved by John. Maybe one day he might even be able to love John back. It didn’t matter. John could wait, he wasn’t going anywhere, because this was it.

“So, is that it, then?”

John looked at Sherlock, who was still panting between his legs. Neither of them had spoken.

“‘Cos I was supposed to stay here till you guys were finished and then take you to the car.”

Without turning to look at the guard, Sherlock sat back on his legs and let himself slip out of John. There were towels on the bedside table, and John threw one to Sherlock, who began to clean up both himself and John.

“But if you want to, like, keep going, it’s fine by me. I’ll… I’ll just wait.”

Now John ventured to peek around Sherlock and took a look at the young man in uniform, standing right where Mycroft had left him. Only John was quite sure there was one major difference.

John let his head drop back down on the bed.

“Is he masturbating?” Sherlock whispered so quietly that John had to read his lips.

John nodded. “It’s out. Half-hard. He’s stroking it.” He lifted his head to take another look. “I think there’s sperm on his trousers.”

Sherlock threw away the towel, his brow knitted in serious thought.

“How long would you say your refractory period is?” When John didn’t answer immediately, Sherlock continued, “I, of course, don’t know mine, but based on my current sensations, I’d say it might not be all that long.”

“I… I don’t know. Maybe--”

But John’s trail of thought was cut by Sherlock leaning down to give him a kiss that seemed to go on forever. Before John knew it, he was trapped beneath Sherlock’s naked body, being kissed and caressed all over. Considering what this was doing to his own body, he would’ve hazarded a guess that his refractory period was uncannily close to Sherlock’s.

“Fucking hell,” said the young man’s voice, sounding a bit more breathless now. “I’ll just wait here while you… Fucking hell!”

Sherlock had just flipped them over - John suspected that this move had caused the guard’s exclamation - and John now found himself lying on top of Sherlock. There was more kissing, which was nice, but then Sherlock’s lovely mouth was gone, and John realised he had slid down on the bed while pushing John up until he was sitting astride Sherlock’s chest. The next thing John knew, his hands were placed on the headboard and he was leaning his weight against it. Which left his quickly hardening prick only inches away from Sherlock’s face.

“Sherlock, we can’t…”

But Sherlock clearly had no troubles with their patient friend watching. He grabbed hold of John’s arse with both hands and pulled the tip of his prick into his wet, hot mouth.

John drew a sharp breath, wondering briefly how exactly his life had come to this. First he had been a doctor, then a soldier, then a slave, then a slave owner - although falsely - and now he was about to fuck his former owner’s mouth while an armed soldier stood behind him watching and wanking.

When he leaned forward, both hands on the headboard for support, he was already fully hard before his cock hit the back of Sherlock’s throat. The sensation was just as bit as good as he remembered, if not better.

Before continuing, though, John just had to ask.

“Which one is this?”

Sherlock let his cock slip out of his mouth for long enough to answer.

“In this particular position, number eight. I have many variations. And what we did before was fifty-four.”

“Fucking your mouth is eight but fucking my arse is fifty-four?”

“That’s just weird,” came the voice from behind them.

John, although agreeing with it, decided to ignore it and let Sherlock swallow him whole.

 

THE END

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it, I can only hope you enjoyed the ride! I'm definitely missing the boys already:)
> 
> Please, leave a comment and share your thoughts. Any feedback you can give me is worth its weight in gold! Not that words actually have mass, but still, you get my meaning;)
> 
> Love, Kleio


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